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From the collection of the 

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San Francisco, California 

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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Potyf / 

Part I., November, i88i, to May, 1882. 


/^^,A^. ^e_^^^ 

Copyright, i88z, by The Century Co. 

Press of Francis Hart & Co. 
New- York. 


• V 



Six Months — November, i88i, to May, 1882. 



" A Bit of Advice." Picture, drawn by F. S. Church . , , . 277 

About OriERS. (Illustrated) John Lewees 194 

Adventures of Prince Nezahualcoyotl. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren)..S(7«i^ C. Very 265 

Agassiz Association. (Illustrated) Harlan H. Ballard 86, 181 

261, 340, 420 

All-Hallow Eve Myths. (Illustratedby Robert Blum; David Brown 23 

Angel in an Ulster. An (Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill) , Washington Gladden 106 

April Girl. .\n Poem. (Illustrated by Rosina Emmet) M. M. D 425 

A Queer Barber Shop. Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 354 

Art and Artists. Stories of (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement. .115, 405 

Ballad of Babette. The Poem. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) Thomas Dunn English 104 

Balloon E.xperiences. (Illustrated) John Leiocvs 30 

Beggar's Button-hole Bouquet. The Little (Illustrated by Jessie)^ ,, 

McDermott) ■ 5 ' ^^ 

Birthday Greeting The Editor. . . i 

Bones and Bow-wows. (Illustrated by the Author) Frank Bellew 221 

Brigham, the Cave-dog. (Illustrated by J. Barton and Joseph Pennell) . H. C. Hovey 426 

Cap and Bells. ( Illustrated by the Author) //. Wintkrop Peine 89 

Carnivoristicous Ounce. The Verses. (Illustrated by J. G. Francis) Mrs. M. E. Blake 43 

Cat-tail. Lament of the Verses. (Illustrated by Walter Satterlee) A. Wolhaupter 448 

Cave-dog. Brigham, the (Illustrated by J. Barton and Joseph Pennell) //. C. Hovey 426 

Character of a Generall Robert Ward 413 

Children's Country. The Poem. (Illustrated) Ellen M. H. Gales 400 

Christ.vias Gift in the Olden Time. A Picture, drawn by Jessie McDermott 175 

Christ.mas. The Poor Count's (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frank H. Stockton 122, 189 

Clown's Baby. The Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Margaret Vandegrift 198 

Cornwallis's Buckles. (Illustrated by G. \V. Edwards) 296 

Cow that Considered. The (Illustrated by W. T. Smedley) . . .Sophie Swett 226 

Cradle Song. Poem . . Margaret Johnson 299 

Curious Drama. A (Illustrated) . . Edward Eggleston 300 

Desert Island. One Day on a (Illustrated by the Author) , Daniel C. Beard. 51 

Donald and Dorothy. (Illustrated). Mary Mapes Dodge 96 

241, 279, 377, 469 
Dream of Little Women, and Some Others. A Verses. (Illustrated J ,, , ,, j 

by Mary Wyman Wallace) \Margaret Vandegn/t 252 

Dr. Holland's Books Washington Gladden 211 

Drummer-boy. Recollections of a (Illustrated by Allen C. Redwood, ) //a>-r)' il/. Kieffer 63 

W. S. Conger, and G. W. Edwards) ) 138, 233, 307, 391, 456 

Easter Card. Drawn by Addie Ledyard 495 

Elberon. Poem M. M. D .' 58 

Extension Table. The Knights of the (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Nellie G. Cone 19 

Fairy's Gift. The Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 48 

Fight. A Remarkable (Illustrated) 166 

Five Little Mice. Verses. (Illustrated by Robert Blum) William Wye Smith 122 

Francklyn Cottage at Elberon. The Picture, drawn by G. W. Edwards 59 

Fun at Grandmamma's. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Bobby Stacy 152 

Future Doge. A. . . Picture 207 

Garfield. James A Noah Brooks 59 



Generalu Character of a .• Robert Ward 413 

Going to Sea. — A Talk with Boys. (Illustrated) Frank H. Converse 292 

Grasses Grow. What makes the Poem iV. W. Fink 121 

" Happy New Year, Baby !" Picture, drawn by Mary D. Lathbury 253 

" Hard TO Hit " Ernest IngnsoU. 346 

Hermann the Brave. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) H. Maria George. . 93 

Hiawatha. Picture, drawn by Alfred Brennan 251 

His Barque is Worse than his Bite. Picture, drawn by Frank Bellew, Jr 279 

Hoosier School-boy. The (Illustrated by George D. Brush) Edward Eggleston 145 

. 201, 324, 355, 434 
How a Little Girl Suggested the Invention of the Telescope. \ 00 

(Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) 

How it PI appened. Verses. (Illustrated by Walter Satterlee) Susan Hartley Swett 386 

How Johnny's Birthday was Kept Emma A'. Parrish 44 

How TO Make Puppets and Puppet-shows. (Illustrated by the Author) Daniel C. Beard. 214 

How TO Run Theo. B. Willson 290 

Hundred Years Ago. A (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan and Robert Blum) . . W. H. Venable 152 

" I Sent My Little Maiden." (Illustrated by the Author) VVilhelmina Grant 434 

Jingles 47, 92, 106, 114, 122, 152, 158, 187, 223, 232, 336, 366, 434, 444, 455 

Just for You. Poem Dora Read Goodale 210 

Knights of the E.xtension Table. The (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Nellie G. Cone 19 

Lady Ann's Valentine. (Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill) Sargent Flint 303 

Lament cf the Cat-tail. Verses. (Illustrated by Walter Satterlee) A. IVolhaiipter 448 

Land of Nod. The Verses. (Illustrated by V. N^hUg) .Mrs. Litey M. Blinn 224 

LiLL's Search Mary N. Prescott 479 

Little Beggar's Button-hole Bouquet. The Poem. (Illustrated by)^_ ^ 

Jessie McDermott) ) 

"Little Bird with Bosom Red. " Poem Mary E. Bradley 29 

Little Dancing Leaves. Poem. (Illustrated) Liiey Larcom 8 

Little Girl who Tried to Mind. The Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie \ji stacv 22 

McDermott) 5 

Little Old Bachelor. A Picture, drawn by J. Wells Champney 426 

Little Penelope. Sir Joshua and (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) E. S. 1 36 

Little Polly's Voyage. Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Eva L. Ogden 128 

Little Sister's Soliloquy. Picture, drawn by Mrs. M. Richardson. 35 

Little Tommy and the Thanksgiving Collection. Picture 51 

Little Women, and Some Others. A Dream of (Illustrated ^y \ Margaret Vandegri/t 252 

Mary Wyman Wallace) 5 

Lord Malapert of Moonshine Castle. Play E. S. Brooks 490 

Love in .\ Noah's .\rk. Jingle Annie C. Davis 223 

Lucy Gray ; or. Solitude. Poem William Wordsworth 412 

Magic Pen. The Operetta. (Illustrated) E. S. Brooks 76, 1 70 

Man in the Moon. The (Illustrated by George D. Brush) Sophie Swett . . 267 

Man with the Pea. The (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Jeremiah Citrtin 208 

Max and the Wonder-flower. (Illustrated by Robert Blum) Julia D. Fay 185 

Mean Little Boy. A Jingle Annie C. Davis 232 

Men-and-Animal Shows, and how they are Moved about. (Illustrated > u/-jr„„, n Stoddarl Wi. 566 

by R. B. Birch, James C. Beard, H. P. Share, and others) 5 

Misunderstanding. A Jingle. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 92 

Morning in London. Poem William Wordsworth 412 

Mr. Weathercock. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Fanny Barrmv 445 

Murillo's Mulatto. (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Mary E. C. Wyeth 17 

Nervous Little Man. The Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Malcolm Douglas 165 

Noble Life. A A'oah Brooks 59 

Northern Myths. Stories from the (Illustrated by R. Blum and R. B. BiTch) James Baldwin 159, 643 

"Oh, What a Cunning Little Baby Elephant!" Picture, drawn by 

F. S. Church. ^ ^''* 



Old-fashioned Thanksgiving. An (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcott 8 

Ollie's Verses E. M. S. Bumstead 38 

O.NE Dav on a Desert Island. (Illustrated by the Author) Dattul C. Beard 51 

Onorata Rodiana Clam Erskiiu Clement 405 

Otters. About (Illustrated) John Lewees 194 

Out of Bounds. Jingles Thomas S. Collier 366 

Partnership. Verses. (Illustrated by Mary Wyman Wallace) Margaret Vandegrift 300 

Peterkins Give a Fancy Ball. The Lucretia P. Hale 26 

Poet who Could n't Write Poetry. The (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Joel Stacy 158 

Poor Count's Christ.mas. The (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frank R. Stockton. . . . 122, 189 

Porter's Iron ColL/\r. The (Illustrated by V. Nehlig) David Ker 196 

Pretty Puritan. The Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Celia Thaxter.. 377 

Puppet-shows. (Illustrated by the -Vulhor) Daniel C. Beard 214 

Pussy and the Chip.munk. Picture, drawn by Daniel C. Beard 391 

Question of Color. A Verses Nellie L. Tinkham 354 

Raphael. (Illustrated) . Clara Erskine Clement 115 

Recollections of a Drum.mer-uoy. (Illustrated by Allen C. Redwood, \ Harry M. Kieffcr 63 

W. S. Conger, and G. W. Edwards) \ 13S, 233, 307, 391, 456 

Remarkable Fight. A (Illustrated) 166 

Reminding the Hen. Verses Bessie Chandler 405 

Report Concerning the " Historical Pi " 500 

RoUiND Stone. The (Illustrated by .\lfred Brennan) Jeremiah Curlin 273 

Runaway Princess. The Poem. (Illustrated by F. II. Lungren) Emily Huntington Miller. . 167 

St. Nicholas Treasure-bo.x of Literature. The 

Thanksgiving for his House Robert Herrick 62 

Morning in London William Wordsworth . 412 

Lucy Gray ; or. Solitude William Wordsworth 412 

The Character of a Generall Robert' Ward. 413 

" Scene I. — Scene II." Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 151 

Schneider. The Tale of Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) W. A. Birch 432 

School-boy Troubles. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 272 

Sea. Going to A Talk with Boys. (Illustrated) Frank H. Converse 292 

Seasons. The Pictures, drawn by J. Dabour 136 

Second Thoughts are Always Best. Verses Margaret Vandegrift. 241 

Selfish Oyster. The Verses George J. Webster 467 

Sending a Valentine. Verses Kate Kellogg 266 

Shows (of .Men and Animals), and how they are Moved about. > ,^,y/;^,„ q stoddard ^14 Tf>(i 

Illustrated by R. B. Birch, James C. Beard, H. P. Share, and others. ... 5 ' i '*• .i 

Sir Joshua and Little Penelope. (Illustrated by .Mfred Brennan) E. S. L 36 

Sir William Napier and Little Joan. Poem. (Illustrated ^y \ Ceiia Thaxter 1S7 

Jessie McDermott) . . > 

Slumber Song. Poem Edwin Oscar Cooke 30 

Snow-filled Nest. The Poem Rose Terry Cooke 345 

Some Balloon E.xperiences. (Illustrated) John Ltwees 30 

Spideree. ( Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) .' Z. D. Underhill 2 

Stories from the Northern Myths. (Illustrated by Robert Blum and ), . „ id-win no i&i 

R. B. Birch \ ""'" " 59. 4 3 

Stories of Art and Artists. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement. .115, 405 

Story of Wangse Pah and the White Elephant. The (Illustrated)^,, tr^ />' - 

by"Boz") ) ■'' 

Susie Seedelmeyer and the Dog. Picture, drawn by Bertha Watson 223 

Tale of Schneider. The Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) W. A. Birch 432 

Tearing Tandem. The Jingle. (Illustrated by J. G. Francis) 47 

Telescope. How a Little Girl Suggested the Invention of the (Illustrated by ^ ,gg 

J. E. Kelly) ) " 

Thanksgiving. An Old-fashioned (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcott. 8 

Thanksgiving for his House. Poem Robert Herrick 62 



"There was a Young Maid of Selmuch." Tingle. (Illustrated by ) ^ „ ,, .,, 

R.H.MuUer) ..... ''y. E. m.„!>on 455 

" The Worthy School-master." Jingle. (Illustrated by H. McVickar) ...Joel Stacy 114 

"They Did n't Have a Penny." Jingle. (Illustrated by J. G. Francis) 444 

Thin Ice. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) William O. Stoddard 401 

Three Foolish Fairies. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 468 

Three Gifts. The (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Thomas Dunn English 347 

Titian. (Illustrated) '. Clara Erskine Clement 406 

To College — and Back. Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) William Wye Smith 106 

Tommy's Resolve. Picture, drawn by A. B. Beard 186 

Too QtricK for Easter. Picture, drawn by Walter Shirlaw , 478 

Tragedy in the Garret. A (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis Shepherd) Gertrude Huntington 464 

" Up in the Morning Early." Picture, drawn by F. W. Sooy 290 

Valentine. Lady Ann's (Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill) Sargent Flint 303 

Valentine. Sending a Verses Kate Kellogg 266 

Verney Ancestor. The (Illustrated) ' Paul Fort 38 

Very Humane. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Malcolm Douglas. 323 

Victory. The Verses. (Illustrated by R. H. MuUer) Bessie Hill . , , 347 

Wallace of Uhlen. Poem. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) E. Vinton Blake. 25 

Wangse Pah and the White Elephant. The Story of (Illustrated by ) ^i/ , a/- / r,- „ 

"Boz") \ -'' "'"''" '"'^ "^^^ 

Water Power. Verses. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) . , Joel Slaty 488 

Weathercock. Mr. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Fanny Barrow . ... 445 

What Makes the Grasses Grow ? Poem W. W. Fink 121 

"When I Work in the House." Jingle. (Illustrated by R. H. Mailer) Bessie Hill 187 

Winter. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 278 

Winter of Life. The Picture, dra^vn by C. D. Sauerwein 307 

Wrong Man at the Other End of the Tube. The. . . Picture. 483 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Illustrated). 

November — The Sun's Voice — .\nswering Voices — White Crows and Other Crows — Hearing Plants Grow — 
A Butterfly Branch (illustrated), 74; The Wonder-day — The Birds — What About This? — A Vesper-bell of 
Nature — A Music-loving Squirrel — Snow Embroidery — Quite a Different " Reason " — Eighteen Hundred 
Carriages — Stand By the Deacon — A Cliristmas Serenade for Me (illustrated), 178; Happy New Year! — 
Bees as Familiar Pets — No-hickory Land — The Historical Pi — Fish that Talk — .\\\ Important Question — 
Boats of Stone — Another " Motherly Rooster " — A Bird that Helps Himself to Oysters (illustrated) — Why it 
is Called a " Jackknife "— A Shoe-black Plant, 254; Introduction — The Laughing Plant — Good Taste Among 
the Mighty — A Long Wagon, a Long Team, and a Very Long Whip — Valella-Saphoidea — Golden Wire — An 
Eel that Curled Naturally — For Our Jack-in-the-Pulpit (illustrated), 334; Happy People — Coasting-sleds Made 
of Ice — Turkish Envelopes — A Rose-boy — The Canary that Would n't Go, and the Canary that Would n't Stay — 
Buttered Tea — Catch-all Pockets — Fairy Rings — A Few Words from Deacon Green (illustrated), 414; Good 
Morrow — Baby Spiders at Play — An .\dopted Chipmunk — Growing Young Again — The Cat-Clock — Siempre 
Viva — A Long Fast — Wholesome Medicine — A Gilded Library — Feeding an Odd Pet (illustrated), 498. 

For Very Little Folk (Illustrated). 

Bob and Bess ; As I Went Down to London Town, 72 — Which Lives in Your House? 176 — Changing Babies, 
256- WTiat Strange Manners ; Jingle, 336 — Gustave's First Ride, 416 — Taking a Walk in Japan ; Silhouette 
pictures for stories to be written, 496. 


The Magic Pen. Operetta E. S. Brooks 76, 1 70 

Lord Malapert of Moonshine Castle . . E. S. Brooks 490 

The Letter-box (Illustrated) 84, 180, 260, 338, 418, 500 

The Riddle-box (Illustrated) 87, 1S3, 263, 343, 423, 503 

Frontispieces — Miss Frances Harris, facing Title-page of Volume — The King's Favorite, 89 — Max and the 
Wonder-Hower, 185— "The Prince Glanced Back," 265— Titian's Portrait of Himself, 345— An April Girl, 425. 

Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. — Engraved by Closson from the Mezzotint. 


Vol. IX. . NOVEMBER, 1881. No. i. 

(Copyright, i88i, by The CENTURY CO.) 


Dear Boy .VND Gir<L who were the first to re;id the very first number of 
St. Nicholas, where are you to-day ? Right liere, we hope, looking at this 
page; and witli \'ou, tlinusands ujjon thousands of others. You have i^'rown 
older, — several years older, but not too old to play with us, though we are only 
eight to-day. Yes, you have grown older ; and of the rest, some who were 
babies then are reading over your shoulders now ; and some who were big 
brothers and sisters at that time are perhaps showing the pictures to their own 
little ones who were nowhere at all when this magazine first came into life. 

Weil, have we not all, first and last, had good times together? And do 
we not all know more, feel more, and enjoy more, because of each other? 
Certainly we do. And most certainly in the full, busy years to come the 
friendly, beautiful crowd shall grow larger and larger, wiser and wiser, happier 
and happier ! St. Nicholas says so. And whatever St. NICHOLAS proph- 
esies must come to pass, because he has a special understanding with the 
boys and girls. 

Now, on his ninth birthday, snugly settled in his new head-quarters on 
Union Square, overlooking half his native city, he naturally forms brave reso- 
lutions, and thinking over the past and the future, is sure of some day 
becoming " the very model of a modern " periodical. 

Is he joking ? No. Or boasting ? No, indeed. The fact is, he can 
not tell exactly all he feels as his ninth Christmas draws near, — that is, 
not word b}- word, any more than \(ni know all that }'ou mean when you 
cry "Hurrah!" on a happy day. He is only crj'ing "Hurrah!" 

So, dear boys and girls, near and far, on the land, on the ocean, in cities, on 
the mountains, wherever, and whoever, you may be, so that you bear the colors 
of youth, St. Nicholas greets you, — and wishes you many happy returns! 
Vol. IX.— I. 




By Z. D. Underhill. 



OnlL upon a time, 
were very, very few 

when there 
men upon 
the earth, and those few were 
considered of httle importance, the 
world, as all wise children know, 
was peopled by fairies. The elves 
then had everything their own way, 
and you might have heard grown- 
up fairies m those days speaking of men and women as 
fanciful creatures that no sensible elfin child ought 
to believe in. There has been a great change since 
then, however, for nowadays plenty of respectable per- 
sons actually deny the existence of the fairies altogether, 
for the foolish reason that they have never seen them, 
— just as if any fairy would take the trouble to show 
himself to a person who did n't believe in him. 

Fine times the sprites had then ! Think of swinging 
on cobwebs, and taking a ride through the sunshiny air 
on a floating bit of thistle-down; of flying about on the 
backs of butterflies, and sailing over moonlit lakes on 
water-lily leaves ; of being so small that you could creep 
into a silky-soft morning glory to sleep, and be wakened 
in the fresh dawn by the rosy light coming through 
the pink walls of your room,— or of taking a nap in the 
heart of a rose, where you would be perpetually fanned 
by the sweet breath of the flower. An easy life the 
elfin mothers led in those happy times ; for when their 
tiny babies fretted and would not rest, as sometimes hap- 
pened, they had only to hang them up in hare-bells and columbines, and let the wind rock them to sleep. 
Old and young spent their time in merry dancing, and in frolicking, for they were a mischievous 
race, and loved to play al! sorts of queer tricks on one another and on the animals that lived with 
them in the woods and meadows. They would pull the bushy tails of the gray squirrels, and then 
hide in the ragged bark of a tree, to watch them stare and hunt vainly about for their tormentors. 
They would knock the nut out of a chipmunk's paws, just as he was going to put it in his mouth, 
and hop about and giggle with delight, to see the angry little fellow sit up on his haunches and scold 


S 1' 1 1) K R E !•: 

till his voice could be heard 

all over the woods. They 

used to peep over the edges 

of the nests, and make faces 

at the young birds, until 

the poor featherless babies 

screamed harder than ever 

for their mothers to come 

home and protect them from 

these naughty elves. They 

took the bees' honey from 

the holes in the hollow trees 

where it had been so carefully stored by its busy 

makers ; they used no end of wasps'-nests for 

paper on which to wTite notes to one another ; and 

they stole the spiders' webs for ropes. 

But, in spite of all these freaks, they were kind- 
hearted, and would not for the world do any real 
harm to any living creature. Indeed, when there 
was no rain, and the delicate plants were fainting 
for want of moisture, troops of fairies would often 
work hard for hours, bringing moss-cups full of 
water from the lirook to refresh the drooping flow- 
ers ; and more than one ncstful of young birds who 
had lost their mother wure brought up by the kind 
elves, who gave up their play to search for seeds 
and worms for the helpless orphans. And the 
squirrels and snakes, wasps, bees, and spiders, all 
knew that much as the fairies might love to tease 
them, there was no danger of their really hurting 
them. So, in spite of a few quarrels and scoldings, 
on occasions when the little people were really too 
troublesome, they were all good friends, and very 
merry and happy together. 

I say that they were very happy, and so the\ 
were, but there was one thing which kept the fair- 
ies from being perfectly contented, and made them. 
even in the midst of their wildest gayety, keep an 
uneasy lookout for the danger which might be lurk- 
ing near. At that time there lived another race of 
beings, who were no bigger than mortal children 
of two or three years, but who to the fairies were 
terrible giants. These were the goblins ; and instead 
of playing about in moonshine and sunshine, and 
giving all their thought to merry tricks and little 
acts of kindness, they were of a cross and gloomy 
disposition, and spent their whole time in accu- 
mulating great heaps of gold and silver and 
precious stones. They thought this the only 
thing worth living for, and as fairy fingers were 
much finer than their own, and could do far more 
delicate work, it was the dearest desire of every 
goblin to catch a fairy, and set him to polishing the 
hard bits of shiny stone which were the pride of the 
goblin heart. Many and many an unhappy sprite 
had been snatched from his dance on the soft green 
moss carpet, and carried off to this hateful slaver)'. 

Where the 
bad race of 
goblins lived, 
to what far 
off and hor- 
rible caverns 
their unfort- 
unate play- 
mates were 
carried, the 
fays and elves 
had never 
been able to 
discover; but 
that it was a 
long and ter- 
and that the 


end of it was 

weary labor 

under pitiless masters, — this at least they had 

succeeded in finding out. 

Now, at this time, in one of the greenest and 
prettiest of dells, decked with ferns, and shadowed 
ijy tall forest-trees, lived, among many others, 
three young sprites. The oldest, who was named 
Spideree, was \ery kind to his sister Violet, and 
together they both took care of their little sister 
Moonbeam, who was still so young and flighty that 
it was often a hard task to keep her out of serious 

One evening, when tlie little people were all out 
enjoying the light of the full moon, which looked 
down with pleasure at their pretty antics, and 
when no one of them had any thought of danger, 
a dark shadow suddenly fell upon them, and the 
King of the Goblins, clad in strange flying-gear, 
swooped down like a bird of prey, and seizing 
Violet and Moonbeam, one in each hand, flew 
swiftly away with them. The shout of the whole 
troop of fairies, when they saw their two com- 
panions snatched away, was no louder than your 
faintest whisper, yet to Spideree, who was standing 
a little distance off, it sounded like a deafening 
outer)', and he looked around, just as the goblin was 



starting upward. Quicker than thought, he threw 
himself on the foot of the foe, grasped it tightly, 
and in spite of all efforts to throw him off, clung 
fast as they all rose together toward the sky. 

On and on flew the goblin, shaking himself 
angrily every now and then, to get rid of Spiderec, 
who still hung on bravely, determined not to let 
go until he had found where his sisters were being 
taken, and in what way he could best go to work 
to save them from their sad fate. But the goblin 
was getting impatient at having this troublesome 

lin-letter cut on one of the sides. This discovery 
delighted him greatly, for he now felt assured that 
the diamond must be the property of the goblin, 
who had dropped it in his flight, and who must 
have passed over the very spot where the diamond 
was lying. Much relieved to think he now knew 
in which direction to fly, he started off rapidly, 
and flew until he was exhausted. 

For some hours he rested in the warm coils of a 
woolly young fern, and then he started again on 
his wearisome journey. Many times in his flitjht he 

elf clinging to him so firmly, and, as a last resort 
he pinched Violet and Moonbeam, whose shri 
screams so frightened their brother that in his ter- 
ror he loosed his hold, and one more shake threw 
him headlong to the earth, while the goblin him- 
self mounted rapidly upward until he was lost to 

Poor Spideree was stunned by his hard fall, and 
when he recovered enough to raise himself up and 
look about, there was no trace of his enemy to be 
seen in the moonlit sky. Hurt and discouraged, 
he lay upon the grass, unable to think what he 
should do, and yet more than ever resolved not to 
rest until he had saved his sisters. 

At last he rose, tried his wings, and found that 
fortunately neither of them had been broken in the 
fall. Round and round he circled, just above the 
grass-tops, searching on every side for some little 
trace which might show him in what direction those 
he sought had flown. Soon, his eye was caught 
by a dew-drop, so bright that he bent down to see 
what was the cause of its singular brilliancy, and 
on coming close to it, he saw that, instead of a 
dew-drop, it was a tiny diamond. It was so finely 
cut that there were a thousand distinct sides, or 
facets, to it, and it was for this reason that it 
sparkled so. Spideree picked it up, and found, on 
examining it closely, that there was a minute gob- 


found bits of rainbow lying on the leaves over 
which he passed, and joyfully picked them up, for 
he knew that they were shreds of the rainbow 
scarf which Violet always wore, and that she must 
have torn them off and dropped them for the 
special purpose of guiding him aright. Often did 
he find himself astray, and forced to hunt around, 
until he was cheered by the sight of a rainbow- 
hued fragment glistening in the grass, or perhaps 
of a tiny diamond flashing light from a myriad 
points. Two more of these precious gems he 



found — the second had two thousand, the third 
three thousand facets, and on cacli was the goblin- 
letter, so small that none but fairy eyes could sec 
it, but which showed whose property the jewel was. 

At last, after many days, worn out with travel- 
ing, with tired feet and drooping wings, Spideree 
arrived in sight of a great and gloomy castle, built 
of enormous blocks of solid stone, and surrounded 
by a moat h hich prevented any near approach to 
it. The draw-bridge was raised when he first came 
in sight of it, and he stood and gazed across the 
moat at the dark buildini,' which he knew must 
be the abode of the King of the Cioblins, and in 
which his little sisters, he felt sure, were con- 
demned to perpetual labor, out of sight of the 
bright sunlight, the flowers, and the friendly 
wild creatures, which make a fairy's life one long 

Although he had penetrated farther than any 
.ndvcnturous member of his race had ever gone 
before, and had made his way to the very castle of 
the goblins, yet Spideree seemed as far off as ever 
from success. Disheartened, he turned toward a 
neighboring wood, where he took up his home in 
an old tree-stump, and waited to see if perhaps 
some fortunate chance would help him to gain his 
object. Every day from his hiding-place he saw, 
at midday, a long train of elves, chained together 
two by two, come sorrowfully out of the castle, 
cross the draw-bridge, and take their daily walk 
under the guardianship of their harsh keepers, 
who would not permit them to talk together, nor 
even to take a single step out of the straight path. 
Last among them came Violet and Moonbeam, 
looking the unhappiest of all, for they had not 
yet grown used to the hard life they were forced to 
lead. Their brother watched them sadly, wonder- 
ing whether he should ever find it possible to 
release them from their servitude. 

One day, when he was sitting perched on top of 
one of the scarlet toadstools, a number of which 
grew in his new home, frowning and shaking his 
head as he vainly tried to think out some plan for 
making his entrance into the big castle, he heard 
what to him was a terribly loud voice, crying out. 
As it drew nearer he recognized it as the voice of a 
goblin herald, coming to announce news of public 
importance. Carefully slipping behind his toad- 
stool, to avoid any chance of being seen, Spideree 
heard with delight the herald proclaim at the top 
of his voice that the King of the Goblins had lost 
three of his handsomest diamonds, one with one 
thousand, one with two thousand, and one with 
three thousand sides, and that whoever should find 
and restore these to their riglilful owner should 
have whatever he inight please to ask as a reward. 

Now Spideree was a prudent as well as a brave 

little fairy, and sat down to think about it, before 
taking back the diamonds to the King. Goblins, 
he remembered to have heard, were very treacher- 
ous as well as cruel ; it would be better not to trust 
them too far, he thought. And the end of it was 
that he carefully hid the diamonds under a corner 
of an old stump, and set out alone to see what 
was to be thought of the state of affairs before 
bringing out the treasures from which he hoped to 
gain so much. 

He went toward the castle ; the draw -Ijridge was 
down, but at the end of it, just within the gloomy 
door-way, stood a cross old porter, who said, gruffly: 

" What do you want, Atom ?" 

"If you please, sir," said Spideree, politely, " I 
have news of his diamonds for the King ! " 

" You ! " said the rough old porter. " What you 
know can't be worth much. But come along to 
my master, and he '11 soon find out what you have 
to say for yourself ! " 

Spideree followed the porter through the dusky 
halls of the castle, until he stopped before a heavy 
door, and knocked. 

" Come in ! " some one shouted. 

The porter threw open the door, and said, bow- 
ing low: " 1 beg pardon. Your Majesty, but here 's 
a conceited mite of a fairy thinks he 's got your 
precious diamonds." 

"Ha, ha!" roared the King. " ( jot my dia- 
monds, has he ? Hand 'em over, sir, and then I '11 
have you and the diamonds, too I " 

" Please, sir," said Spideree's shrill little voice, 
" I thought I was to have anything I wanted for a 

"So you believed that silly story, did you?" 
said the King. " Well, it was n't true, as any one 
with any sense might have known. So give up 
the diamonds." 

" I have n't brought them with me, please, sir," 
said Spideree. 

" As if I 'd believe that ! " growled the King, 
and he picked up Spideree, and looked in all his 
pockets, and even inside the lining of his hat, to 
see if the gems were hidden anywhere about him. 
His Majesty flew into a terrible rage as he went 
on, for he thought Spideree had been only fooling 
him, and at last, in a fit of anger, he tossed him 
out of the window, shouting : 

" Get out, you miserable, deceitful little mite !" 

He was so angry that he threw Spideree far 
across t}ie moat, to the hard bank beyond, which 
for the little fellow was really very fortunate. 
Bruised and sore, he picked himself up and limped 
back to his woods. There he soon made for him- 
self a healing salve of red cup-moss, and the juices 
of some wood plants, well mixed together, which 
in a short time restored him to his natural vigor. 



For a whole day and night he sat on his toadstool, he raised his hand to rub his head, as puzzled 
reflecting. But at last he said to himself, "Nothing people are very apt to do, and no sooner did a ray 


venture, nothing have !" and taking the thousand- 
sided diamond from its hiding-place, he started 
once more for the stone castle. When he reached 
it, all the inhabitants were out of sight, and the 
draw-bridge was raised. 

"What shall I do now?" 

muttered Spideree. "They 

will never hear such a little 

voice as mine calling across the moat. How am 1 

ever to get into their precious old cavern of a castle?" 

As he stood puzzling over this difficult question. 

of light from the diamond which he held fall upon 
the draw-bridge, than it slowly lowered itself, and 
then the way to the castle lay open before him. 
Now he felt certain of what he had long suspected, 
that the diamonds were magic jewels, and that 
it was for this reason that the King of the Goblins 
was so anxious to get them once more into his own 

Greatly pleased with this idea, Spideree passed 
over the bridge, and with a single gleam from the 
diamond opened the huge gates which were locked 
across his way. But alas, although the castle 
gates flew open before the enchanted rays, he 
could not open with them the door of a single 
chamber, and was forced to return to the woods 
for the two other diamonds, before he could make 
his way any farther. When he came back with 
these, Spideree soon found that, while the diamond 
with a thousand facets controlled only the draw- 
bridge and the great gates, the one with two 
thousand sides made ever)- door in the castle fly 
open. Hastily he made his way to the apartment 
which he remembered as the King's. Here he 
paused a moment, and then, taking courage, let 
a single beam from the gem fall upon the massive 
door. Instantly it flew open, and within sat the 
Goblin King, who, the moment he saw the spark- 
ling stone in Spideree's hand, started up, shout- 
ing : "At last ! At last, I have them ! " and rushed 
toward the door, with his hand stretched out to 
seize the jewel. The light which streamed upon 
him from it did not seem to affect him at all, and 
Spideree, in terror, just had time to draw the third 


diamond from his bosom and direct its beams upon 
his enemy. 

As the jjlittering radiance fell upon the goblin, 
the laughter died upon his lips, the brightness 
faded from his eyes, and slowly he grew still and 
rigid before the wonderin^r 
eyes of Spideree, who no\'. 
saw in front of him, instead 
of a raging foe, only a s!ui- 
ue of stone, with its ham I 
outstretched as if to> 
the empty air. Spidcrct 
knew now that at last lu 
had found the means of 
conquering the goblin tribi. 
and undoing all the evil 
which their avarice and 
harshness had worked. 
Swiftly he flew from room 
to room, changing the in- 
habitants of each to stone . 
until he reached the apart 
ment in which were con 
fined the elfm work-people. 

Here the diamond quick 
ly turned the cruel keepers 
to stone, while all the ea- 
ger fairies crowded around 
Spideree to be loosed from 
their chains by the magic 
beams. Happiest among 
them all was Violet, to 
think that it was her own 
dear brother who had freed 
her and all their captive 
friends, while after long 
search little Moonbeam 
was found hidden far down 
in a ilark corner, where she 
had been put for neglect- 
ing her work. 

How they all rejoiced to 
be going back to their 
own happy world again. 
and how many questions 
Spideree had to ansvvn 
about the beautiful fairs 
land, and the friends th.u 
they had all been longing 
so to see ! Together the 

joyful troop left the castle, and crossed the draw- 
bridge. Spideree, with Violet and Moonbeam, came 
last, and as he reached the middle of the bridge, 
softly the three diamonds slipped from his hand, and 
fell into the moat. No sooner were the elves all 

across, than the draw-bridge lifted itself up, and the 
moat began slowly to spread into a wide expanse 
of water. A chilling wind blew from the enchanted 
castle, turning everything about to ice, and making 
the fairy band hurry still fiLster on their homeward 


way. It was not long before the>- were all once 
more in their favorite haunts, frolicking and play- 
ing at their old tricks, without any fear of the ter- 
rible goblins, from whom Spidcrce's patience and 
bravery had saved them for evermore. 




By Lucy Larcom. 

Little dancing leaves 

In the garden-bower, 
Which among you grieves 

Not to be a flower ? 
Never one ! " the Hght leaves say, 
Dancing in the sun all day. 

Little dancing leaves, 

Roses lean to kiss you ; 
From the cottage eaves 

Nestling birds would miss you, — ■ 
We should tire of blossoms so, 
If vou all to flowers should grow ! 

Little dancing leaves, — 
Grasses, ferns, and sedges, 

Nodding to the sheaves. 
Out of tangled hedges, — 

What a dull world would remain 

If vou all were useful grain ! 

Little dancing leaves, 

Who could do without you ? 
Every poet weaves 

Some sweet dream about you. 
Flowers and grain awhile are here ; 
You stay with us all the year. 

Little dancing leaves. 

When through pines and birches 
The great storm-wind heaves. 

Your retreat he searches, — 
How he makes the tall trees roar! 
While you — only dance the more ! 

Little dancing leaves. 

Loving and caressing, — 
He most joy receives 

Who bestows a blessing. 
Dance, light leaves, for dancing made, 
While you bless us with your shade! 


By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Sixty years ago, up among the New Hamp- 
shire hills, lived Farmer Bassett, with a houseful 
of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about 
him. They were poor in money, but rich in land 
and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and 
pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock, 
while mutual patience, affection, and courage made 
the old farm-house a very happy home. 

November had come ; the crops were in, and 
barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the 
harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. 
The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in 
the great fire-place roared a cheerful fire ; on the 
walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and 
corn ; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked 
squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison — for in 
those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and 
hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air ; 
on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down 
among the red embers copper saucepans simmered, 
all suggestive of some approaching feast. 

A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle 

that had rocked six other babies, now and then 
lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, 
then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and 
suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two 
small boys sat on the wooden settle shelling corn 
for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from 
the goodly store their own hands had gathered in 
October. Four young girls stood at the long 
dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, 
and slicing apples ; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, 
Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands. 
Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were 
" chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at 
hand, and all must be in order for that time-hon- 
ored day. 

To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom 
Mrs. Bassett, flushed and floun,-, but busy and 
blithe as the queen bee of this busy little hive 
should be. 

" I do like to begin seasonable and have things 
to my mind. Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, 
and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these 


AX OLD- 1-ASH KJ.X i:i) T 11 A N KS t; 1 V I N . 

hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she 
gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider 
apple-sauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride 
at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery 

"Only one more day and then it will be time to 
eat. I did n't take but one bowl of hasty pudding 
this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when 
the nice things come," confided Seth to Sol, as he 
cracked a large hazel-nut as easily as a squirrel. 

" No need of my starvin' beforehand. / ahuays 
have room enough, and 1 M like to have Thanks- 
giving every day," answered Solomon, gloatin;.; 
like a young ogre over the little pig that lay ne^ir 
by, ready for roasting. 

" Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It 's a marcy it 
don't come but once a year. 1 should be worn tc 
a thread-paper with all this extra work atop of ni\ 
winter w'eavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother, 
as she plunged her plump arms into the long 
bread-trough and began to knead the dough as if 
a famine was at hand. 

Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-checked, bl.-ick-eyed 
lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mor- 
tar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be 
wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the 
twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown 
arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so 
now with a will. 

" I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving nt 
home. I 'm sorry Gran'ma is sick, so we can't ^^ 
there as usual, but I like to mess 'round here, don't 
you, girls ? " asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at 
the spicy pestle. 

" It will be kind of lonesome with only our own 
folks." " I like to see all the cousins and aunts, 
and have games, and sing," cried the twins, who 
were regular little romps, and could run, swini, 
coast, and shout as well as their brothers. 

" I don't care a mite for all that. It will be sn 
nice to eat dinner together, warm and comfortabli 
at home," said quiet Prue, who loved her owi 
cozy nooks like a cat. 

" Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chon ^ 
done, so we can clear away for dinner jest as sih.m.i, 
I clap my bread into the oven," called Mrs. Il.i ^ii 
presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of bruun 
bread which was to feed the hungry mouths that 
seldom tasted any other. 

" Here 's a man comin' up the hill lively ! " 
" Guess it 's Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a 
dezzen oranges, if they war n't too high ! " shouted 
Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls 
smacked their lips at the thought of this rare treat, 
and Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting 
ready for a new cargo. 

But all were doomed to disappointment, for it 

was not Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a 
stranger, who threw himself off his horse and hur- 
ried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some brief 
message that made the farmer drop his ax and look 
so sober that his wife guessed at once some bad 
news had come; and crying, " Mother 's wuss ! 1 
know she is ! " out ran the good woman, forgetful 
of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for 
its most important batch. 

The man said old Mr. 'Irulwirk, down to Keene, 


stopped him as he passed, and told him to tell Mrs. 
Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she 'd bet- 
ter come to-day. He knew no more, and having 
delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked 
like snow and he must be jogging, or he would n't 
get home till night. 

"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and 




I '11 be ready in less 'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, 
wasting not a minute in tears and lamentations, 
but pulling off her apron as she went in, with her 
head in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, 
sorrow, haste, and cider apple-sauce. 

A few words told the story, and the children left 
their work to help her get ready, mingling their 
grief for "Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost 

" I 'm dreadful sorrj', dears, but it can't be helped. 
I could n't cook nor eat no way now, and if that 
blessed woman gets better sudden, as she has be- 
fore, we '11 have cause for thanksgivin', and I '11 
give you a dinner you wont forget in a hurry," 
said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on her brown silk 
pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother 
who had made it for her. 

Not a child complained after that, but ran about 
helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the foot- 
stone, and getting ready for a long drive, because 
Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and there were 
no railroads in those parts to whisk people to and 
fro like magic. By the time the old yellow sleigh 
was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and 
Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, 
and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets. 

"Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like 
a man, and keep up the fires for there 's a storm 
brewin', and neither the children nor dumb critters 
must suffer," said Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the 
collar of his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, 
while the old mare shook her bells as if she pre- 
ferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day. 

" Tilly, put extry comfortables on the beds 
to-night, the wind is so searchin' up chamber. 
Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin' for din- 
ner, and whatever you do, don't let the boys git at 
the mince-pies, or you '11 have them down sick. I 
shall come back the minute I can leave Mother. 
Pa will come to-morrer anyway, so keep snug and 
be good. I depend on you, my darter; use your 
jedgment, and don't let nothin' happen while 
Mother 's away." 

" Yes 'm, yes 'm — good-bye, good-bye ! " called 
the children, as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the 
sleigh and driven away, leaving a stream of direc- 
tions behind her. 

Eph, the sixteen-year- Jd boy, immediately put 
on his biggest boots, assumed a sober, responsible 
manner, and surveyed his little responsibilities 
with a paternal air, drolly like his father's. Tilly 
tied on her mother's bunch of keys, rolled up the 
sleeves of her homespun gown, and began to order 
about the younger girls. They soon forgot poor 
Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all 
alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her 
family in the good old-fashioned way. There were 

no servants, for the little daughters were Mrs. Bas- 
sett's only maids, and the stout boys helped then 
father, all working happily together with no wages 
but love ; learning in the best manner the use 
of the heads and hands with which they were to 
make their own way in the world. 

The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict 
bad weather soon increased to a regular snow- 
storm, with gusts of wind, for up among the hills 
winter came early and lingered long. But the 
children were busy, gay, and warm in-doors, and 
never minded the rising gale nor the whirling 
white storm outside. 

Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was 
over the two elder girls went to their spinning, for 
in the kitchen stood the big and little wheels, and 
baskets of wool-rolls, ready to be twisted into yarn 
for the winter's knitting, and each day brought its 
stint of work to the daughters, who hoped to be as 
thrifty as their mother. 

Eph kept up a glorious fire, and superintended 
the small boys, who popped corn and whittled boats 
on the hearth; while Roxy and Rhody dressed 
corn-cob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the 
brindled mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously 
warming his old legs. Thus employed, they made 
a pretty picture, these rosy boys and girls, in their 
homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks which 
most children nowadays would find very poor or 

Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and 
fro, drawing out the smoothly twisted threads 
to the musical hum of the great spinning-wheels. 
The little girls chattered like magpies over their 
dolls and the new bed-spread they were planning 
to make, all white dimity stars on a blue calico 
ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The boys 
roared at Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble 
games over Bose, who did n't mind them in the 
least ; and so the afternoon wore pleasantly away. 

At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, 
bring in heaps of wood, and lock up for the night, as 
the lonely farm-house seldom had \-isitors after dark. 
The girls got the simple supper of brown bread 
and milk, baked apples, and a doughnut all 'round 
as a treat. Then they sat before the fire, the sis- 
ters knitting, the brothers with books or games, 
for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never 
failed to play a few games of Morris with barley 
corns, on the little board they had made themselves 
at one corner of the dresser. 

" Read out a piece," said Tilly from Mother's 
chair, where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth 
woolen sock she had knit that month. 

" It 's the old history book, but here 's a bit you 
may like, since it 's about our folks," answered 
Eph, turning the yellow page to look at a picture 



I I 

of two quaintly dressed children in some ancient 

" Yes, read that. I always like to hear about 
the Lady Matildy 1 was named for, and Lord Has- 
sett, Pa's great-great-great-grandpa. He 's only 
a farmer now, but it 's nice to know we were some- 
body two or three hundred years ago," said Tilly, 
bridling and tossing her curly head as she fancied 
the Lady Matilda might have done. 

" Don't read the queer words, 'cause we don't 
understand 'em. Tell it," commanded Koxy, from 
the cradle, where she was drowsily cuddled with 

" Well, a long time ago, when Charles the 
First was in prison. Lord Bassett was a true friend 
to him," began Eph, plunging into his story with- 
out delay. "The lord had some papers that 
would have hung a lot of people if the king's 
enemies got hold of 'em, so when he heard one 
day, all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle- 
gate to carry him off, he had just time to call his 
girl to him, and say ; ' I may be going to my 
death, but I wont betray my master. There is no 
time to burn the papers, and I can not take them 
with me ; they are hidden in the old leathern chair 
where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you 
must guard them till 1 come or send you a safe mes- 
senger to take them away. Promise me to be 
brave and silent, and 1 can go without fear.' You 
see, he was n't afraid to die, but he luas to seem a 
traitor. Lady Matildy promised solemnly, and the 
words were hardly out of her mouth when the men 
came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner 
and sent off to the Tower." 

"But she did n't cry; she just called her brother, 
and sat down in that chair, with her head leaning 
back on those papers, like a queen, and waited 
while the soldiers hunted the house over for 'em : 
was n't that a smart girl ? " cried Tilly, beaming 
with pride, for she was named for this ancestress, 
and knew the story by heart. 

" I reckon she wasscared, though, when the men 
came swearin' in and asked her if she knew any- 
thing about it. The boy did his part then, for /le 
did n't know, and fired up and stood before his sis- 
ter; and he says, says he, as bold as a lion : ' If 
my lord had told us where the jiapcrs be, we would 
die before we would betray him. But v.e are 
children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of 
you to \xy to fright us with oaths and drawn 
swords ! ' " 

As Eph quoted from the book, Seth planted him- 
self before Tilly, with the long poker in his hand, 
saying, as he flourished it valiantly : 

"Why did n't the boy take his father's sword 
and lay about him ? 1 would, if any one was ha'sh 
to Tilly." 

" You bantam ! he was only a bit of a boy, and 
could n't do anything. Sit down and hear the rest 
of it," commanded Tilly, with a pat on the yellow 
head, and a pri\ate resolve that Seth should have 
the largest piece of pie at dinner next day, as re- 
ward for his chivalry. 

" Well, the men went off after turning the castle 
out of window, but they said they should come 
again ; so faithful .Matildy was full of trouble, and 
hardly dared to leave the room where the chair 
stood. All day she sat there, and at night her 
sleep was so full of fear about it, that she often got 
up and went to see that all was safe. The serv- 
ants thought the fright had hurt her wits, and let 
her be, but Rupert, the boy, stood by her and 
never was afraid of her queer ways. She was ' a 
pious maid,' the book says, and often spent the 
long evenings reading the Bible, with her brother 
by her, all alone in the great room, wMth no one to 
help her bear her secret, and no good news of her 
father. At last, word came that the king was dead 
and his friends banished out of England. Then 
the poor children were in a sad plight, for they had 
no motlier, and the servants all ran away, leaving 
only one faithful old man to help them." 

" But the father did come .' " cried Roxy, eagerly. 

" You '11 see," continued Eph, half telling, half 

" Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the 
big chair, guarding the papers, and no one could 
get her away, till one day a man came with her 
father's ring and told her to give up the secret. 
She knew the ring, but would not tell until she 
had asked many questions, so as to be very 
sure, and while the man answered all about her 
father and the king, she looked at him sharplv. 
Then she stood up and said, in a tremble, for there 
was something strange about the man: 'Sir, I 
doubt you in spite of the ring, and 1 will not answer 
till you pull ofl the false beard you wear, that I 
may see your face and know if you are my father's 
friend or foe.' Off came the disguise, and Matilda 
found it was my lord himself, come to take them 
with him out of England. He was very proud of 
that faithful girl, I guess, for the old chair still 
stands in the castle, and the name keeps in the 
family. Pa says, even over here, w here some of the 
Bassetts came along w^ith the Pilgrims." 

" Our Tilly would have been as brave, I know^ 
and she looks hke the old picter down to Gran'ma's, 
don't she, Eph ? " cried Prue, who admired her 
bold, bright sister ver>' much. 

" Well, I think you 'd do the settin' part best, 
Prue, you are so patient. Till would fight like a 
wild cat, but she can't hold her tongue worth a 
cent," answered Eph ; w^hereat Tilly pulled his 
hair, and the story ended with a general frolic. 




When the moon-faced clock behind the door 
struck nine, Tilly tucked up the children under the 
" extry comfortables," and having kissed them all 
around, as Mother did, crept into her own nest, 
never minding the little drifts of snow that sifted 
in upon her coverlet between the shingles of the 
roof, nor the storm that raged without. 

A.NLj HtK LlK'jrHER 

As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old 
Bose lay down on the mat before the door, and 
pussy had the warm hearth all to herself. If any 
late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would 
have seen the fire blazing up again, and in the 
cheerful glow the old cat blinking her yellow eyes, 
as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning-wheel, 
like some sort of household goblin, guarding the 
children while they slept. 

When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, 
but up the little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in 
their jugs, and went down with cheeks glowing like 
winter apples, after a brisk scrub and scramble into 
their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly 
soon had a great kettle of mush ready, which, with 
milk warm from the cows, made a «-holesome break- 
fast for the seven hearty children. 

•'Now about dinner," said the young house- 
keeper, as the pewter spoons stopped clattering, 
and the earthen bowls stood empty. 

" Ma said, have what we liked, but she did n't 
expect us to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, 
because she wont be here to cook it, and we don't 
know how," began Prue, doubtfullv. 

" I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as 
well as anybody, 1 guess. The pies are all ready, 
and if we can't boil vegetables and so on, we don't 
deserve any dinner," cried Tilly, burning to dis- 
tinguish herself, and bound to enjoy to the utmost 
her brief authority. 

"Yes, yes!" cried all the boj-s, "let's have a 
dinner anyway ; Ma wont care, and the good vic- 
tuals will spoil if they aint eaten right up." 

" Pa is coming to-night, so we wont have dinner 
till late ; that will be real genteel and give us 
plenty of time," added Tilly, suddenly realizing 
the novelty of the task she had undertaken, 

"Did you ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, 
with an air of deep interest. 

" Should you darst to try?" said Rhody, in an 
awe-stricken tone. 

" You will see what I can do. Ma said 1 was to 
use my judgment about things, and 1 'm going to. 
All )ou children have got to do is to keep out of 
the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I 
wish you 'd put a fire in the best room, so the little 
ones can play in there. We shall want the settin'- 
room for the table, and I wont have them pickin' 
'round when we get things fixed," commanded 
Tilly, bound to make her short reign a brilliant one. 

" 1 don't know about that. Ma did n't tell us 
to," began cautious Eph, who felt that this inva- 
sion of the sacred best parlor was a daring step. 

" Don't we always do it Sundays and Thanks- 
givings? Would n't Ma wish the children kept 
safe and warm anyhow ? Can 1 get up a nice din- 
ner with four rascals under my feet all the time ? 
Come, now, if you want roast turkey and onions, 
plum-puddin' and mince-pie, you '11 have to do as 
I tell you, and be lively about it." 

Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her last sugges- 
tion was so irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laugh- 
ing good-naturedly, tramped away to heat up the 
best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious 
would happen to punish such audacity. 

The \oung folks delightedly trooped away to 
destroy the order of that prim apartment with 
housekeeping under the black horse-hair sofa, 
"horseback-riders" on the arms of the best rock- 
ing-chair, and an Indian war-dance all over the 
well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society of 
peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than 
that of two excited sisters, lingered over his chores 
in the barn as long as possible, and left the girls in 

Now Tilly and Prue were in their glory, and as 
soon as the breakfast-things were out of the way, 
they prepared for a grand cooking-time. They 
were handy girls, though they had never heard of 
a cooking-school, never touched a piano, and knew 
nothing of embroidery beyond the samplers which 



hung framed in the parlor ; one ornamented with 
a pink mourner under a blue weeping-willow, the 
other with this pleasing verse, each word being 
done in a different color, which gave the effect of 
a distracted rainbow : 

" This sampler neat was worked by mc. 
In my twelfth year, Prudence B." 

Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest 
aprons, and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, 
and pans they could find, "so as to have every- 
thing handy," Prue said. 

"Now, sister, we '11 have dinner at five ; Pa will 

IN THE slrMMEK-Tl.Mt. 

be here by thai time, if he is coming to-night, and 
be so surprised to find us all ready, for he wont 
have had any very nice victuals if Gran'ma is so 
sick," said Tilly, importanUy. " I shall give the 
children a piece at noon" (Tilly meant luncheon); 
"doughnuts and cheese, with apple-pie and cider, 
will please 'em. There 's beans for Kph ; he likes 
cold pork, so we wont stop to warm it up, for 
there 's lots to do, and I don't mind saying to you 
I 'm dreadful dubersome about the turkev." 

" It 's all ready but the stuffing, and roasting 
is as easy as can be. I can baste first-rate. Ma 
always likes to have me, 1 'm so patient and stiddy, 
she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility of 
this great undertaking did not rest upon her, so 
she took a cheerful view of things. 

" I know, but it 's the stuffin' that troubles me," 
said Tilly, rubbing her round elbows as she eyed 
the immense fowl laid out on a platter before her. 
" I don't know how much I want, nor what sort of 
yarbs to put in, and he 's so awful big, 1 'm kind 
of afraid of him." 

" 1 aint ! I fed him all .summer, and he never 
gobbled at «/<■. i feel real mean to 
be thinking of gobbling him, poor 
old chap," laughed Prue, patting her 
departed pet with an air of mingled 
affection and appetite. 

"Well, 1 '11 get the puddin' off my 
mind fust, for it ought to bile all day. 
Put the big kettle on, and sec that 
the spit is clean, while 1 get ready." 
Prue obediently tugged away at the 
crane, with its black hooks, from 
which hung the iron tea-kettle and 
three-legged pot ; then she settled 
the long spit in the grooves made for 
it in the tall andirons, and put the 
dripping-pan underneath, for in those 
days meat was roasted as it should 
be, not baked in ovens. 

Meantime Tilly attacked the plum- 
pudding. She felt pretty sure of com- 
ing out right, here, for she had seen 
her mother do it so many times, it 
looked \ery easy. So in went suet 
and fruit ; all sorts of spice, to be 
sure she got the right ones, and 
brandy instead of wine. But she for- 
got both sugar and salt, and tied it 
in the cloth so tightly that it had no 
room to swell, so it would come out 
as heavy as lead and as hard as a 
cannon-ball, if the bag did not burst 
and spoil it all. Happily unconscious 
of these mistakes, Tilly popped it 
into the pot, and proudly watched it 
bobbing about before she put the cover on and 
left it to its fate. 

" 1 can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," 
she said, when she had got her bread well soaked 
for the stuffing. "Sage and onions and apple- 
sauce go with goose, but I can't feel sure of any- 
thing but pepper and salt for a turkey." 

" Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but 
I forget whether it is spearmint, peppennint, or 
pennyroyal," answered Prue, in a tone of doubt. 




but trying to show her knowledge of " yarbs," or, 
at least, of their names. 

" Seems to me it 's sweet marjoram or summer 
savory. I guess we '11 put both in, and then we 
are sure to be right. The best is up garret ; you 
run and get some, while I mash the bread," com- 
manded Tilly, diving into the mess. 

Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got cat- 
nip and wormwood, for the garret was darkish, and 
Pruc's little nose was so full of the smell of the 
onions she had been peeling, that everything 
smelt of them. Eager to be of use, she pounded 
up the herbs and scattered the mixture with a 
liberal hand into the bowl. 

" It does n't smell just right, but I suppose it 
will when it is cooked," said Tilly, as she filled the 
empty stomach, that seemed aching for food, and 
sewed it up with the blue yarn, which happened to 
be handy. She forgot to tie down his legs and 
wings, but she set him by till his hour came, well 
satisfied with her work. 

" Shall we roast the little pig, too ? 1 think he 'd 
look nice with a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed 
him at Christmas," asked Prue, elated with their 

" I could n't do it. 1 loved that little pig, and 
cried when he was killed. 1 should feel as if I was 
roasting the baby," answered Tilly, glancing to- 
ward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so 
pink and pretty it certainly did seem cruel to 
eat him. 

It took a long time to get .^ll the vegetables 
ready, for, as the cellar was full, the girls thought 
they would have every sort. Eph helped, and by 
noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry- 
sauce, a good deal scorched, was cooking in the 

Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and 
cheese vanished in such quantities that Tilly feared 
no one would have an appetite for her sumptuous 
dinner. The boys assured her they would be 
starving by five o'clock, and Sol mourned bitterly 
over the little pig that was not to be served up. 

" Now you all go and coast, while Prue and 1 set 
the table and get out the best chiny," said Tilly, 
bent on having her dinner look well, no matter 
what its other failings might be. 

Out came the rough sleds, on went the round 
hoods, old hats, red cloaks, and moccasins, and 
away trudged the four younger Bassetts, to disport 
themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by 
the old mill, where the great wheel turned and 
splashed so merrily in the summer-time. 

Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his 
heart's content in the parlor, while the girls, after 
a short rest, set the table and made all ready to 
dish up the dinner when that exciting moment 

came. It was not at all the sort of table we see 
now, but would look very plain and countrified to 
us, with its green-handled knives, and two-pronged 
steel forks; its red-and-white china, and pewter 
platters, scoured till they shone, with mugs and 
spoons to match, and a brown jug for the cider. 
The cloth was coarse, but white as snow, and the 
little maids had seen the blue-eyed flax grow, out 
of which their mother wove the linen ; they had 
watched and watered while it bleached in the green 
meadow. They had no napkins and little silver ; 
but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding- 
spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples 
at the corners gave an air, and the place of honor 
was left in the middle for the oranges yet to come. 

" Don't it look beautiful ? " said Prue, when they 
paused to admire the general effect. 

" Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see 
how well we can do it," began Tilly, when a loud 
howling startled both girls, and sent them flying to 
the window. The short afternoon had passed so 
quickly that twilight had come before they knew 
it, and now, as they looked out through the gather- 
ing dusk, they saw four small black figures tearing 
up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming at 
once: "The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! 
He 's coming, he 's coming! " 

Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his 
gun before the girls could calm the children enough 
to tell their story, which they did in a somewhat 
incoherent manner. " Down in the holler, coastin', 
we heard a growl," began Sol, with his eyes as big 
as saucers. "I see him fust lookin' over the wall," 
roared Seth, eager to get his share of honor. 

" Awful big and shaggy," quavered Roxy, cling- 
ing to Tilly, while Rhody hid in Prue's skirts, and 
piped out : " His great paws kept clawing at us, and 
I was so scared my legs would hardly go." 

"We ran away as fast as we could go, and he 
come growlin' after us. He 's awful hungry, and 
he '11 eat ever)- one of us if he gets in," continued 
Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat. 

"Oh, Eph, don't let him eat us," cried both 
little girls, flying upstairs to hide under their 
mother's bed, as their surest shelter. 

"No danger of that, you little geese. I '11 shoot 
him as soon as he comes. Get out of the way, 
boys," and Eph raised the window to get good aim. 

"There he is! Fire away, and don't miss!" 
cried Seth, hastily following Sol, who had climbed 
to the top of the dresser as a good perch from 
which to view the approaching fray. 

Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at 
her post rather than desert the turkey, now "brown- 
ing beautiful," as she expressed it. But Tilly boldly 
stood at the open window, ready to lend a hand if 
the enemy proved too much for Eph. 

AN OI.D-KASIl lOXKl) T 11 A N KSc; 1 V I X G. 


All had seen bears, but none had ever come 
so near before, and even brave Kph felt that the 
big brown beast slowly trotting up the door-yard 
was an unusually formidable specimen. He was 
growling horribly, and stopped now and then as if 
to rest and shake himself. 

"Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand 
ready to keep him off while I load again," said 
Eph, anxious to kill his first bear in style and 
alone ; a girl's help did n't count. 

Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother's 
side by the time the bear was near enough to be 
dangerous. He stood on his hind legs, and seemed 
to sniff with relish the savory odors that poured 
out of tiic window. 

"Fire, Eph ! " cried Tilly, firmly. 

" Wait till he rears again. 1 'U get a better shot 
then," answered the boy, while Prue covered her 
cars to shut out the bang, and the small boys 
cheered from their dusty refuge up among the 

But a very singular thing happened next, and 
all who saw it stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly 
throw down the ax, flung open the door, and ran 
straight into the arms of the bear, who stood erect 
to receive her, while his growlings changed to a 
loud "Haw, haw!" that startled the children 
more than the report of a gun. 

"It 's Gad Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried 
Eph, much disgusted at the loss of his prey, for 
these hardy boys loved to hunt, and prided tliem- 
selves on the number of wild animals and birds 
they could shoot in a year. 

" Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?" laughed 
Tilly, still held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, 
while the other drew a dozen oranges from some 
deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and fired thein 
into the kitchen with such good aim that Kph 
ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol and Seth came 
down much quicker than they went up. 

"Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the 
old horse went home while I was floundering in a 
drift, so I tied on the buffalers to tote 'cm easy, 
and come along till 1 sec the children playin' in 
the holler. I jest meant to give 'em a little scare, 
but they run like partridges, and I kep' up the 
joke to see how Kph would like this sort of com- 
pany," and Gad haw-hawed again. 

" You 'd have had a warm welcome if we had n't 
found you out. I 'd have put a bullet through you 
in a jiffy, old chap," said Eph, coming out to shake 
hands with the young giant, who was only a year or 
two older than himself. 

"Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue 
and I have done it all ourselves, and Pa will be 
along soon, I reckon," cried Tilly, trying to escape. 

"Could n't, no ways. My folks will think 1 'm 

dead ef I don't get along home, sence the horse 
and sleigh have gone ahead empty. I 've done my 
arrant and had my joke ; now I want my pay, 
Tilly," and Gad took a hearty kiss from the rosy 
checks of his " little sweetheart," as he called her. 
His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she 
gave him as she ran away, calling out that she 
hated bears and would bring her ax next time. 

" I aint afearcd — your sharp eyes found me 
out; and ef you run into a bear's arms you must 
expect a hug," answered Gad, as he pushed back 
the robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly. 

" I should have known you in a minute if I had 
n't been asleep when the girls scjualled. You did 
it well, though, and 1 advise you not to try it again 
in a hurry, or you '11 get shot," said Eph, as they 
parted, he rather crestfallen and (jad in high glee. 

"My sakes alive — the turkey is all burnt one 
side, and the kettles have biled over so the pies I 
put to warm are all ashes ! " scolded Tilly, as the 
flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner. 

" Well, I can't help it. I could n't think of 
victuals when 1 expected to be eaten alive myself, 
could I ? " pleaded poor Prue, who had tumbled 
into the cradle when the rain of oranges began. 

Tilly laughed, and ail the rest joined in, so good- 
humor was restored, and the spirits of the younger 
ones were revived by sucks from the one orange 
which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity 
while the older girls dished up the dinner. They 
were just struggling to get the pudding out of the 
cloth when Roxy called out : " Here 's Pa ! " 

"There 's folks with him," added Rhody. 

" Lots of 'em ! I see two big sleighs chock full," 
shouted Seth, peering through the dusk. 

" It looks like a semintary. Guess Gramma 's 
dead and come up to be buried here," said .Sol, in 
a solemn tone. This startling suggestion made 
Tilly, Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full of 
dismay at such an ending of their festival. 

" If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncom- 
mon jolly," said Eph, dryly, as merry voices and 
loud laughter broke the white silence without. 

" I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty — and 
there 's Mose and Amos. I do declare. Pa 's bring- 
in' 'em all home to have some fun here," cried 
Prue, as she recognized one familiar face after 

" Oh, my patience ! Aint 1 glad 1 got dinner, 
and don't 1 hope it will turn out good ! " exclaimed 
Tilly, while the twins pranced with delight, and 
the small boys roared : 

" Hooray for Pa ! Hooray for Thanksgivin' ! " 

The cheer was answered heartily, and in came 
Father, Mother, Baby, aunts, and cousins, all in 
great spirits, and all much surprised to find such a 
festive welcome awaiting them. 




" Aint Gran'ma dead at all ? " asked Sol, in the 
midst of the kissing and hand-shaking. 

" Bless your heart, no ! It was all a mistake of 
old Mr. Chadwick's. He 's as deaf as an adder, 
and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother was mend- 
in' fast, and she wanted me to come down to-day, 
certain sure, he got the message all wrong, and 
give it to the fust person passin' in such a way as 
to scare me 'most to death, and send us down in a 
hurry. Mother was sittin' up as chirk as you 
please, and dreadful sorry you did n't all come." 

"So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you 
a taste of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to 
spend the evenin', and we are goin' to have a jolly 
time on 't, to jedge by the looks of things," said 
Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing the tale when Mrs. 
Basseit paused for want of breath. 

"What in the world put it into your head we 
was comin', and set you to gittin' up such a sup- 
per? " asked Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well 
pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table. 

Tilly modcsth' began to tell, but the others broke 
in and sang her praises in a sort of chorus, in 
which bears, pigs, pies, and oranges were oddly 
mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by all, 
and Tilly and Prue were so elated by the commen- 
dation of Ma and the aunts, that they set forth 
their dinner, sure everything was perfect. 

But when the eating began, which it did the 
moment wraps were off, then their pride got a fall ; 
for the first person who tasted the stuffing (it was 
big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to bear) 
nearly choked over the bitter morsel. 

" Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put worm- 
wood and catnip in your stuffin' ? " demanded Ma, 
trying not to be severe, for all the rest were laugh- 
ing, and Tilly looked ready to cry. 

" I did it," said Prue, nobly taking all the 
blame, which caused Pa to kiss her on the spot, 
and declare that it did n't do a mite of harm, for 
the turkey was all right. 

" I never see onions cooked better. All the 
vegetables is well done, and the dinner a credit to 
you, my dears," declared Aunt Cinthy, with her 
mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised. 

The pudding was an utter failure in spite of the 
blazing brandy in which it lay — as hard and heavy 
as one of the stone balls on Squire Dunkin's great 
gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight, and 
all fell upon the pies, which were perfect. But 
Tilly and Prue were much depressed, and did n't 
recover their spirits till dinner was over and the 
evening fun well under way. 

"Blind-man's buff," " Hunttheslipper," "Come, 
Philander," and other lively games soon set every 
one bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph struck 
up "Money Musk" on his fiddle, old and young 

fell into their places for a dance. All down the 
long kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs. Bassett at 
the top, the twins at the bottom, and then away 
they went, heeling and toeing, cutting, pigeon- 
wings, and taking their steps in a way that would 
convulse modern children with their ncu-fangled 
romps called dancing. Mose and Tilly covered 
themselves with glory by the vigor with which 
they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a chair, 
breathlessly declaring that a very little of such 
e.xercise was enough for a woman of her " heft." 

Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the 
evening, and after a grand kissing all round, the 
guests drove away in the clear moonlight \xhich 
came out to cheer their long drive. 

When the jingle of the last bell had died away, 
Mr. Bassett said soberly, as they stood together on 
the hearth: "Children, we have special cause to 
be thankful that the sorrow we expected was 
changed into joy, so we '11 read a chapter 'fore we 
go to bed, and give thanks where thanks is due." 

Then Tilly set out the light-stand with the big 
Bible on it, and a candle on each side, and all sat 
quietly in the fire-light, smiling as they listened 
with happy hearts to the sweet old words that fit 
all times and seasons so beautifully. 

When the good-nights were over, and the chil- 
dren in bed, Prue put her arm round Tilly and 
whispered tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was 
sure she was crying: 

" Don't mind about the old stuffin' and puddin', 
deary — nobody cared, and Ma said we really did 
do surprisin' well for such young girls." 

The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke 
out then, and was so infectious, Prue could not 
help joining her, even before she knew the cause 
of the merriment. 

" I was mad about the mistakes, but don't 
care enough to cry. I 'm laughing to think how 
Gad fooled Eph and 1 found him out. I thought 
Mose and Amos would have died over it when 1 
told them, it was so funny," explained Tilly, when 
she got her breath. 

" I was so scared that when the first orange hit 
me, I thought it was a bullet, and scrabbled into 
the cradle as fast as I could. It was real mean 
to frighten the little ones so," laughed Prue, as 
Tilly gave a growl. 

Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room 
caused a sudden lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's 
voice was heard, saying warningly, " Girls, go to 
sleep immediate, or you '11 wake the baby." 

"Yes 'm," answered two meek voices, and after 
a few irrepressible giggles, silence reigned, broken 
only by an occasional snore from the boys, or the 
soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their 
part in this old-fashioned Thanksgiving. 




Bv Marv E. C. Wyeth. 

NEARLV three hundred years ago, in the city of adorn the palaces of the Old World, while a few 
SeviUe, lived one of the greatest of Spanish paint- may be found m the possession of wealthy art- 
ery- Bartoleme Esteban Munllo. lovers upon this side of the water. 

Many beautiful pictures painted by this master In the church of bevillc one may see four beau- 

VOL. IX.— 2. 




tiful paintings — one, a picture of Christ bound to 
a column, St. Peter in a kneeling posture at His 
feet, as if imploring pardon ; another, a superb 
painting of St. Joseph ; one of St. Ann : and a 
fourth, an exquisite picture of the \'irgin Mother 
holding the infant Jesus in her arms. These 
paintings are largely sought for and long gazed 

of six in the morning to take their lessons in draw- 
ing and painting in the studio of the great Murillo ; 
to prepare and stretch canvas, run errands, and be 
ready at all times to answer the capricious de- 
mands of these high-born and imperious youths. 

The poor mulatto boy had, however, in addition 
to a generous heart and amiable temper, a quick 


upon b)- all art-lo\ers who visit Spain, and are par- 
ticularly admired by artists for their truthful beauty, 
delicate tints, and natural coloring. 

But they are not Murillo's. 

These noble paintings, the pride and glory of 
Seville to-day, were conceived and executed b)- a 
mulatto, Sebastian Gomez, who was once the slave, 
then the pupil, and in time the peer of his illus- 
trious and high-minded master. 

The childhood of .Sebastian Gomez was one of 
ser\'itude. His duties were many and constant. 
He was required to grind and mix the colors used 
by the young sefiors, who came at the early hour 

wit, bright intellect, and willing hands. His mem- 
ory also was excellent; he was not without judg- 
ment, and, what was better than all, he was gifted 
with the power of application. 

Intellect, wit, memor\-, judgment are all good 
endowments, but none of these will lead to excel- 
lence if one has not a habit of industry and steady 

Sebastian Gomez, at the age of fifteen, found 
himself capable, not only of admiring, but also of 
appreciating, the work of the pupils who wrought in 
his master's studio. 

At times he even fancied that he could detect 




errors and blemishes which they failed to note in 
their studies. 

It chanced, sometimes, that he would drop a 
hint of his thoughts, when handing a maul-stick, 
or moving an e.iscl for some artist student. 

"How droll it is that the sly young rogue 
should be so nearly correct in his criticisms ! " 
one of the pupils would perhaps remark, after over- 
hearing some quiet suggestion of the mulatto lad. 

" Aye. One might think the slave a connois- 
seur," would laugh another. 

" Truly, it was owing to a cunning hint of his 
that my St. Andrew's arm was improved in the 

" It was Gomez who detected first the harshness 
in my coloring of this St. Catherine's hands, 
and noted the false curve of the lower lip. The 
mulatto has the true eye for color, and in truth 
he seems to guess at form as readily as some of 
his betters." 

Such were the remarks that often followed the 
lad's exit, as the young senors lightly commented 
upon his criticisms. There came a time, however, 
when the poor mulatto received from their lordly 
lips far other than light comment. 

One day, a student who had been for a long 
time at work upon a " Descent from the Cross," 
and who, but the previous day, had effaced from 
the canvas an unsatisfactory- head of the Mater 
Dolorosa, was struck dumb with surprise at find- 
ing in its place a lovely sketch of the head and 
face he had so labored to perfect. The miracle — 
for miracle it seemed — was inquired into, and 

examination proved that this exquisite head, which 
Murillo himself owned that he would have been 
proud to ha\e painted, was the secret work of 
the little slave Sebastian. So closely had he 
listened to his great master's instructions to the 
pupils, so retcntively stored them in his mind, 
and so industriously worked upon them while 
others slept, — his custom being to rise at three in 
the morning and paint until five, — that he, the 
servant of the young artists, had become, uncon- 
sciously to himself as to them, an artist also. 
Murillo, upon discovering the genius of Gomez, 
was enraptured, and declared that the young 
mulatto should be in his sight no longer a slave, 
but a man, his pupil, and an artist. 

" Other masters leave to posterity only pictures," 
exclaimed the glad master. " I shall bequeath 
to the world a painter ! Your name, Sebastian, 
shall go down to posterity only in company with 
mine ; your fame shall complete mine ; coming 
ages, when they name you, shall call you ' Murillo's 
mulatto ' ! " 

He spoke truly. Throughout Spain to-day 
that artist who, of all the great master's pupils, 
most nearly equals him in all his varied excel- 
lences, is best known, not as Sebastian Gomez 
alone, but as "Sebastian Gomez; The Mulatto of 

Murillo had Gomez made a free citizen of Spain, 
treated him as a son. and, when dying, left him 
a part of his estate. But Gomez sur\-ived his illus- 
trious master and friend only a few years, dying, 
it is said, about the year 1 590. 

By Nellie G. Cone. 

The Tournaments began one winter day, in the 
midst of a snow-storm. Dick and Belinda sat by 
the dining-room fire. Belinda was reading " Ivan- 
hoe." She was a small girl, with large, innocent 
eyes. Dick was older than she, and a great deal 
wiser, but he condescended to play with her. Just 
then he wanted amusement; and he asked Belinda, 
in an injured way, why she was always reading. 

"What else is there to do?" said the meek 

" We might play War," said Dick, rather slyly. 

They had often played War on the extension 
table, setting up the tin and wooden armies oppo- 
site each other, and throwing an India rubber 
ball at each side bv turns. But once Dick had 

proposed to " draft," as he said, the animals from 
the Noah's Ark, and call them cavalry. Then he 
had drafted into his own army the otters, and other 
ugly but very little creatures which Belinda could 
not hit with the ball. Belinda, on the other hand, 
had chosen the giraft'es and elephants because 
they looked so stately. Dick had won in a short 
battle of two minutes, and Belinda never forgot it. 

" Xo, Dick," she said, firmly, " 1 don't want to 
play War." 

" Well," said Dick, " there 's Tournament. 
May be that 's nicer than War. " 

"Beautiful!" cried Belinda. " Then we need 
n't have any animals." 

She brought out at once all her battered toys. 




and the two began to choose their knights, decid- 
ing that each should have six men. 

First, Behnda selected hers, naming most of 
them after the heroes in Sir Walter Scott's 
stories and poems, which both she and Dick 
liked to read. She made up her mind to 
have James Fitz-James, the disguised king 
in "The Lady of the Lake." She took to 
represent him a jointed cavaHer, with buff 
jacket and gauntlets ; but unfortunately he 
had lost both his legs (in- 
cluding a handsome pair 
of boots), and had to lean 
back upon his arms. 

"Now," she said, "I 
think 1 '11 have Wilfred of 
Ivanhoe," and she found 
a mild-looking wooden 
soldier with a piece of tin- 
foil tied around him. 

She had a market in 
a box, with stiiif green 

poplar-trees and tables full of fish and fruit ; and 
out of this she took a man on a round yellow stand, 
wrapped him also in tin-foil, and named him Rich- 
ard Coeur de Lion. 

Then she remembered Tennyson's gentle Sir 
Galahad, and how he had a habit of riding about 
in the moonlight, and wearing silver armor, and 
always winning in tournaments because he was so 
good ; and she got him from the market, too. He 
was a woman who had formerly kept a vegetable 

Next, in order that another wooden soldier 
might look like King Henry of Navarre, she made 
a pin-hole in the top of his black cap, or "helmet," 
as she called it, and put a white feather in the pin- 
hole. This looked so fine that she gave plumes to 
Ivanhoe, King Richard, and Sir Galahad, also. 

You will notice that Belinda selected only one 
of the market-women. 

" 1 don't like them," she said. " They have 
aprons on, and they don't look nice." 

Lastly, she chose Ferrand of the Forest Brown. 
He used to be Shem, in the Ark. Dick never knew 
where Belinda found his new name, but evidently 
she was proud of it. 


" Oh, I '11 take the rest," said Dick, in the most 
obliging manner. "This," he went on, lifting a 
plum-colored fish- woman with half a head, "shall 
be Sir Reginald Front de Boeuf, known as the 
Savage Baron. This striped one is Lord Mar- 

" Why, he forged a letter ! " said Belinda, with 

" Never mind," said Dick. " He was a splendid 
soldier, and the book says he had a blue flag with 
a falcon on it ; and his hair was all grizzly, except 

in front, where his helmet wore it off " 

" 1 don't think I 'd have a knight that was 
bald," said Belinda. 

" This other striped one," Dick continued, "is 
Sir Roderick Dhu, the chieftain of Clan Alpine. 
This red one is Sir William of Deloraine, good 
at need." 

"Why! "said Belinda, 
again. " He was a robber ! 
They were both robbers ! " 
"So they were," said 
Dick, cheerfully, seizing a 
brown woman as he spoke. 
" This is Bertram Rising- 
hame, who burned the 
castle in 'Rokeby.'" 

"But he was a pirate ! " 
cried Belinda. 

" Yes," said Dick, tak- 
ing no notice of his sister's 
horror, " and if you '11 give me a lead-pencil, I '11 
make him a big mustache. Pirates always wear 
mustaches. There ! This fish-seller, the only 
real man I have, shall be Brian de Bois-Guilbert, 








the Templar, who carriLcl away Re- 
becca of V'ork." 

"Dick," said Uelinda, solemnly, 
" you never will win one tourna- 
ment with such knights as those. 
They 're just a set of 
tramps! " 

Dick only said 
he "guessed" 
he liked them 
pictty well. 

When all 
were chosen, 

Hclinda, who liked to draw, 
made a sketch of each 
group, and was pleased to 
see that her own had a more military appearance 
than Dick's. '• Now," she inquired, when the 
knights had been placed at opposite ends of the 
table, "how does a tournament begin?" 
" In the first place, you of course must 
be the herald for 
your knights, and 
i '11 be the herald 
for mine." explained 
Dick. "First, the her- 
ald sounds a trum- 
pet, just like this : 
Tra-Ia-la-la-la ! Then 
you say, ' This blow is from 
Sir Reginald Front de Boeuf,' 
for instance, ' to Sir Wil- 
fred of Ivanhoc,' for instance; 
and if you can think of a 
war-cry, or anything of that 
kind, you say that, too." At this point he 
flung the ball, and Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe fell 
headlong. " When they fall like that," Dick con- 
tinued, "they are unhorsed; and you know when 
a knight is unhorsed, he must n't fight again till 
next day." 

Belinda sorrowfully re- 
moved Sir Wilfred, and 
then, with a feeble crow 
that she meant for a' 
trumpet-blast, aimed the 
ball at the Savage Raron. 
She said that the blow- 
was from Rjchard Coeur 
de Lion, who, she ad- 


ded, w-as Front dc BoeuPs 

lawful king and master. The ball passed over 
Sir Reginald's head, and, after a few defiant re- 
marks, he rolled his lawful king and master off 
the table. 

Would you believe that, in this tournament. 
Dick did not use (until the last) one of his wicked 



knights, excepting Sir Reginald Front de 
BoEuf? Would you believe that the royal 
James Fitz-James, the gentle SirGalahad, 
and the brave King Henry of Xavarre 
were all "unhorsed" by that plum- 
colored rebel ? W'hen they attacked him, 
the ball, owing to the nervousness of the 
"herald," Be- 
linda, gener- ~' 
ally struck ei- 
ther the man- 
tel - piece or 
the coal-scuttle. 
Once or twice it grazed 
him, but he only spun 
about and settled down 
into his old position with a 
clatter. The artful Dick, when 
he obligingly chose the market- 
women, had foreseen that their heavy 
wooden skirts would hold them steady. 

Belinda was almost in despair. Of all her 
goodly company of knights, Ferrand alone 
remained. She shut both eyes, shouted, 
"Ferrand of the Forest Brown to the res- 
cue, ho ! "and let the ball go where it would. 
To her great surprise there was a sharp 
crack, and in an in- 
stant Sir Reginald 
Front de Boeuf lay on the 
hearth-rug in two pieces. 

Belinda felt almost as 
if she had won the day. 
To be sure, the piratical 
Bertram Risinghanie " un- 
horsed" Sir Ferrand soon 
after. But that did not mend 
Front de Bceuf. Neither 
would glue, although they tried it. They laid him 
in a broken match-box that had a Crusader on the 
cover, and they played no more tournament until 
next day, all Belinda's knights being prevented 
from fighting again by 
Dick's rule about "un- 

" Dick," said Belinda, 
as she tried to fasten on 
the helmet of Navarre, 
which had been knocked 
from his head by the 
Savage Baron," don't you 
think we ought to call 
them the Knights of the 
Round Table?" 

But Dick said he thought the Knights of the 
l->tension Table would be better. And that was 
their name as long as they lasted. 







Bv Joel Stacy. 

Susan, good sister Susan ! was a gentle girl of eight, 
And Totty was but four years old, when what I now relate 
Came to the happy little pair, one bright November day — 
A Sunday, too — while good Papa was many miles away. 

Good-bye; my darlings! don't forget." The little ones went forth, 
Their hearts all in a sunny glow, their faces to the north — 

Their faces to the chilling north, but not a whit cared they 
Though the pretty church before them stood full half a 
mile away. 

For Mother, with her smiling face and cheery voice, had said : 
" I can not go to church to-day, but you may go instead. 
Baby will need me here at home — the precious little pet! 
But babies grow in time, you know. She '11 go to meeting yet." 

" Take care of sister Sue ! " she said, while tying 

Totty's hood. — 
" And, Tottykins, I 'm sure you '11 be, oh, very 
/j I, I still and good ! 

Good-bye, my darlings ! Don't forget. Now, 

Sue, you know the pew ! 
And, Tot, be Mamma's little mouse, and sit 
up close to Sue." 

A pretty sight it truly was, to see the rosy pair 
\\'alk down the aisle and take their seats, with sweetly solemn air. 
And Susie soon was listening, her manner all intent. 
While little Tot sat prim and stiff, and wondered what it meant. 

The quaint, old-fashioned meeting-house had pew-seats low and bare, 
With backs that reached above the heads when they were bowed in prayer. 
And thus it was when suddenly a scratching sound was heard. 
Faint at the first, then almost loud — but not a person stirred. 

All heads were bowed; and yet it rose — that scratching, puzzling sound. 

The staidest members rolled their eyes and tried to look around; 

Till Susie, stately little maid ! felt, with a startled fear, 

That, whatsoe'er its cause might be, the noise was strangely near. 

Out went her slyly warning hand, to reach for Totty there; 
When, oh, the scratching rose above the closing w-ords of prayer ! 
An empty mitten on the seat was all poor Susie felt, 
While on the floor, in wondrous style, the earnest Totty knelt! 

Poor Susie leaned and signaled, and beckoned, all in vain ; — 
Totty was very much engaged and would not heed, 't was plain. 
When suddenly a childish voice rang through the crowded house: — 
DON'T, Susie ! 'cause I 've dot to be my mamma's 'ittle mouse ! " 


Many a sober face relaxed, and many smiled outright. 
While others mourned in sympathy with Susie's sorry plight; 
And Totty, wild with wrath because she could be mouse no more, 
Was carried soon, a sobbing child, out through the wide church-door. 

Now parents ponder while ye may upon this sad mishap. 
The mother, not the mouse, you see, was caught within the trap. 
And lest your little listening ones may go beyond your reach. 
Be chary of your metaphors and figurative speech. 

By David Brown. 

As THE world grows old and wise, it ceases to 
believe in many of its superstitions. But, although 
they are no longer believed in, the customs con- 
nected with them do not always die out; they often 
linger on through centuries, and, from having once 
been serious religious rites, or something real in 
the life of people, they become at last mere chil- 
dren's plays or empty usages, often most zealously 
enjoyed by those who do not understand their 

Still other customs have been parts of a heathen 
religion, and when that religion was supplanted 
by Christianity, the people held on to the old cus- 
toms, although they had lost their first significance. 

For instance, when a party of boys and girls are 
out in a sail-boat, and the wind dies down, some 
one says, " Whistle for the wind." A boy whistles, 
and they all laugh, for it seems a good joke to think 
of raising the wind by a whistle. But it was a 
serious thing to the sailors of old time, for to them 
the whistle was an imitation of the sound of the 
winds, and their intention in making it was that 
the gods might hear, and make the real winds blow. 
But a better illustration of all this is our All-hallow 
Eve festival. Its history is that of a custom which 
has passed from the worship of heathen gods into 
the festivities of the Christian church, and has sunk 
at last into a mere sport. 

All-hallow Eve is now, in our country towns, a 
time of careless frolic, and of great bonfires, which, 
I hear, are still kindled on the hill-tops in some 
places. We also find these fires in England, Scot- 
land, and Ireland, and from their history we learn 
the meaning of our celebration. Some of you may 
know that the early inhabitants of Great Britain, 
Ireland, and parts of France were known as Celts, 
and that their religion was directed by strange 

priests called Druids. Three times in the year, on 
the first of May, for the sowing ; at the solstice, 
June 2ist, for the ripening and turn of the year; 
and on the eve of November ist, for the harvest- 
ing, those mysterious priests of the Celts, the 
Druids, built fires on the hill-tops in France, Brit- 
ain, and Ireland, in honor of the sun. At this last 
festival the Druids of all the region gathered in 
their white robes around the stone altar or cairn on 
the hill-top. Here stood an emblem of the sun, 
and on the cairn was the sacred fire, which had 
been kept burning through the year. The Druids 
formed about the fire, and, at a signal, quenched 
it, while deep silence rested on the mountains 
and valleys. Then the new fire gleamed on the 
cairn, the people in the valley raised a joyous 
shout, and from hill-top to hill-top other fires an- 
swered the sacred flame. On this night, all 
hearth-fires in the region had been put out, and 
they were rekindled with brands from the sacred 
fire, which was believed to guard the households 
through the year. 

But the Druids disappeared from their sacred 
places, the cairns on the hill-tops became the 
monuments of a dead religion, and Christianity 
spread to the barbarous inhabitants of France and 
the British Islands. Yet the people still clung to 
their old customs, and felt much of the old awe 
for them. Still they built their fires on the first of 
May, — at the solstice in June, — and on the eve of 
November First. The church found that it could 
not all at once separate the people from their old 
ways, so it gradually turned these ways to its own 
use, and the har\est festival of the Druids became 
in the Catholic Calendar the Eve of .All Saints, for 
that is the meaning of the name "All-hallow Eve." 
In the seventh centun,', the Pantheon, the ancient 




Roman temple of all the gods, was consecrated 
anew to the worship of the Virgin and of all holy 
martyrs. The festival of the consecration was held 
at first on May 13th, but it was afterward changed 
to November ist, and thus All Saints Day, as it is 
now called, was brought into connection with the 
Druid festival. This union of a holy day of the 
church with pagan customs gave new meaning to 
the heathen rites in the minds of the common peo- 
ple, and the fires which once were built in honor 
of the sun, they came to think were kindled to 
lighten Christian souls out of purgatory. At All- 
hallow-tide, the church-bells of England used to 
ring for all Christian souls, until Henry Vlll. 
and Elizabeth forbade the practice. 

But by its separation from the solemn character 
of the Druid festival, All-hallow Eve lost much of 
its ancient dignity, and became the carnival-night 
of the year for wild, grotesque rites. As century 
after century passed by, it came to be spoken of as 
the time when the magic powers, with which the 
peasantry, all the world over, filled the wastes and 
ruins, were supposed to suarm abroad to help or 
injure men. It was the time when those first 
dwellers in every land, the fairies, were said to 
come out from their grots and lurking-places ; 
and in the darkness of the forests and the shadows 
of old ruins, witches and goblins gathered. In 
course of time, the hallowing fire came to be con- 
sidered a protection against these malicious pow- 
ers. It was a custom in the seventeenth centur)- 
for the master of a family to carry a lighted torch 
of straw around his fields, as shown in the pict- 
ure, to protect them from evil influence through 

the year, and as he went he chanted an invoca- 
tion to the fire. 

Because the magic powers were thought to be 
so near at that season, AU-hallow Eve was the 
best time of the year for the practice of magic, and 
so the customs of the night grew into all kinds of 
simple, pleasant divination, by which it was pre- 
tended that the swarming spirits gave knowledge 
of the future. Even nowadays, it is the time, 
especially, of young lovers' divinations, and also 
for the practice of curious and superstitious rites, 
many of w^iich were described to you in St. 
Nicholas for October, 1879. And almost all of 
these, if traced to their sources, lead us back to 
that dim past out of which comes so much of our 
superstition and fable. 

But belief in magic is passing away, and the 
customs of All-hallow Eve have arrived at the last 
stage ; for they have become mere sports, repeated 
from year to jear like holiday celebrations. 

Indeed, the chief thing which this paper seeks 
to impress upon your minds in connection with 
AU-hallow Eve is lliat its curious customs show how 
no generation of men is altogether separated from 
earlier generations. Far as we think we arc from 
our unciviHzed ancestors, much of what they did 
and thought has come into our doing and think- 
ing, — with many changes perhaps, under different 
religious forms, and sometimes in jest where they 
were in earnest. Still, these customs and observ- 
ances (of which AU-hallow Eve is only one) may 
be called the piers, upon which rests a bridge that 
spans the wide past between us and the gen- 
erations that have gone before. 




By E. Vinton Bi.ake. 

Brave old W allaci.- of Ulilcn iluL-lls 
On a castled crag of the Uiachenfels. 

White of hair and of beard is he, 
Yet hokleth his own riifht manfiillv. 

1 II btaiiii the brunt ot many a tight, — 
Bui ghosts are anotlier matter, quite." 

'I'licn up old Wallace of Uhlcn stood, 
And stoutly vow'd b\- the holv rood, 

Oft and oft. when his limbs were young, 
Out from its scabbard his good sword 
sprung : 

In castle hall, or in cot of thatch, 

With Wallace of I'hlen none might match. 

The bra\e old baron one day had hoard 
The peasants round by a legend stirred. 

Of a ghostly lady, that watched till light 
In Kcidenloch Chapel every night. 

So to his seneschal quoth he: 
" Go w\atch, and tell me if such things be." 

" My lord, 1 'd fain take many a knock 
Than watch in the Chapel of Keidenloch ; 

.And aU things holy, all things bright, 

He 'd watch in the chapel that very night. 

With only a sword, from his castled rock 
Down he strode unto Keidenloch ; 

.And with the twilight, dusk and brown, 
Deep in the chapel he sat him down. 

Wallace of I'hlen watched awhile 

The pale moonbeams in the middle aisle, 

The glimmer of marble here and there, 
The oriel painting the dusky air. 

Over his feet a something drew ; 
" Kats ! " quoth the baron, with sudden 




Then from the stair-way's darkness bleak, 
Sounded a most suspicious creak. 

Out from the stair-way's darkness came 

A creak that should put a ghost to shame ! 

"Spirits, I fancied, were airy matter; 

Hush!" spake the baron,"now, have at her!" 

Lo ! the chancel was all aflame, 
And past the altar the lady came. 

Sank the flame with many a flicker. 

Till ever the darkness seemed the thicker. 

Nearer and nearer stole the maid — • 
A ghastly phantom — a fearful shade! 

His blade old Wallace uplifted high: 
" Now, which is stronger, thou or 1?" 

But lo ! affrighted, the lady dread 

Back through the chapel turned and fled ; 

.\nd hasting after with many a blow, 
Old Wallace of Uhlen laid her low. 

He drew her into a moonlit place, 
And gazed undaunted upon the face — 

Gazed on the face so pale and dread, 
And saw no maid, but a robber dead — 

The scourge of many a fertile plain, 
By Wallace of Uhlen lying slain. 

So up to his castle striding back. 

He pledged the ghost in a cup of sack, 

And roared with laughter when from his rock 
He looked to the Chapel of Keidenloch. 


By Lucretia P. Hale. 

IGHT not something be done by 
way of farewell before leaving for 
' Egypt ? They did not want to 
give another tea-party, and could 
not get in all at dinner. They had 
had charades and a picnic. Eliza- 
beth Eliza wished for something 
unusual, that should be remembered after they 
had left for Egypt. Why should it not be a 
Fancy Ball ? There never had been one in the 

Mrs. Peterkin hesitated. Perhaps for that reason 
they ought not to attempt it. She liked to have 
things that other people had. She, however, 
objected most to the "ball" part. She could, 
indeed, still dance a minuet, but she was not sure 
she could get on in the " Boston dip." 

The little boys said they would like the " fancy " 
part and "dressing up." They remembered their 
delight when they browned their faces for Hindus, 
at their charades, just for a k\v minutes ; and what 
fun it would be to wear their costumes through 
a whole evening ! Mrs. Peterkin shook her head ; 
it was days and days before the brown had washed 
out of their complexions. 

Still she, too, was interested in the "dressing 
up." If they should wear costumes, they could 
make them of things that might be left behind. 

that they had done wearing — if they could only 
think of the right kind of things. 

Mrs. Peterkin, indeed, had already packed up, 
although they were not to leave for two months, 
for she did not want to be hurried at the last. 
She and Elizabeth Eliza went on different prin- 
ciples in packing. 

Elizabeth Eliza had been told that you really 
needed very little to travel with — merely your 
traveling dress and a black silk. Mrs, Peterkin, 
on the contrary, had heard it was best to take 
everything you had, and then you need not spend 
your time shopping in Paris. So they had decided 
upon adopting both ways. Mrs. Peterkin was to 
take her " everything," and already had all the 
shoes and stockings she should need for a year or 
two. Elizabeth Eliza, on the other hand, pre- 
pared a small valise. She consoled herself with 
the thought that, if she should meet anything 
that would not go into it, she could put it in one 
of her mother's trunks. 

It was resolved to give the Fancy Ball. 

Mr. Peterkin early determined upon a charac- 
ter. He decided to be Julius Caesar. He had 
a bald place on the top of his head, which he was 
told resembled that of the great Roman, and he 
concluded that the dress would be a simple one 
to get up, requiring only a sheet for a toga. 



Agamemnon was inclined to take the part which 
his own name represented, and he looked up the 
costume of the (jreek king of men. But he was 
dissatisfied with the representation given of him in 
Dr. Schliemann's " Myken;e." There was a picture 
of Agamemnon's mask, but ver>' much battered. 
He might get a mask made in that pattern, indeed, 
and the little boys were delighted with the idea of 
battering it. .-Vgamemnon would like to wear a 
mask, then he would have no trouble in keeping 
up his expression. Hut Elizabeth Eliza objected 
to the picture in Dr. Schliemann's book; she did 
not like it for Agamemnon — it was too slanting 
in the eyes. So it was decided he should take 
the part of Nick Bottom, in " Midsummer Night's 
Dream." He could then wear the ass's head, which 
would have the same advantage as a mask, and 
would conceal his own face entirely. Then he 
could be making up any face he pleased in the 
ass's head, and would look like an ass without any 
difficulty, while his feet would show he was not 
one. Solomon John thought that they might 
make an ass's head if they could get a pattern, 
or could see the real animal, and form an idea 
of the shape. Barnum's circus would be along 
in a few weeks, and they could go on purpose to 
study the donkeys, as there usually was more than 
one donke\- in the circus. Agamemnon, however, 
in going with a friend to a costumer's in Boston, 
found an ass's head already made. 

The little boys found in an illustrated paper an 
accurate description of the Hindu snake-charmer's 
costume, and were so successful in their practice of 
shades of brown for the complexion, that Solomon 
John decided to take the part of Othello, and use 
some of their staining fluid. 

There was some discussion as to consulting the 
lady from Philadelphia, who was in town. 

Solomon John thought they ought to practice 
getting on by themselves, for soon the Atlantic 
would lie between her and them. Mrs. Peterkin 
thought they could telegraph. Elizabeth Eliza 
wanted to submit to her two or three questions 
about the supper, and whether, if her mother were 
Queen Elizabeth, they could have Chmese lanterns. 
Was China invented at that time? Agamemnon 
was sure China was one of the oldest countries in 
the world and did exist, but perhaps Oucen Eliza- 
beth did not know it. 

Elizabeth Eliza was relieved to find that the 
lady from Philadelphia thought the question not 
important. It would be impossible to have every- 
thing in the house to correspond with all the differ- 
ent characters, unless they selected some period to 
represent, such as the age of Queen Elizabeth. 
Of course, Elizabeth Eliza would not wish to do 
this, when her father was to be Julius Cassar. 

The lady from Philadelphia advised Mrs. Peter- 
kin to send for Jones, the " caterer," to take 
charge of the supper. But his first question stag- 
gered her. How many did she expect ? 

They had not the slightest idea. They had 
sent invitations to everybody. The little boys pro- 
posed getting the directory of the place, and mark- 
ing out the people they didn't know, and counting 
up the rest. But even if this would give the num- 
ber of invitations, it would not show how many 
would accept ; and then there was no such direc- 
tory. They could not expect answers, as their 
invitations were cards with " At Home " on them. 
One answer had come from a lady, that she, too, 
would be "at home," with rheumatism. So they 
only knew there was one person who would not 
come. Elizabeth Eliza had sent in Circumambient 
ways to all the members of that society — by the 
little boys, for instance, who were sure to stop at 
the base-ball grounds, or somewhere, so a note was 
always delayed by them. One Circumambient 
note she sent by mail, purposely omitting the 
" Mass.," so that it went to the Dead-Letter Office, 
and came back six weeks after the party. 

But the Peterkin family were not alone in com- 
motion. The whole town was in excitement, for 
"everybody " had been invited. Ann Maria Brom- 
wich had a book of costumes, that she lent to a 
few friends, and everybody borrowed dresses or 
lent them, or went into town to the costumer's. 
Weeks passed in preparation. "What are you 
going to wear?" was the only question exchanged, 
and nobody answered, as nobody would tell. 

At length the evening came — a beautiful night in 
late summer, warm enough to have had the party 
out-of-doors, but the whole house was lighted up 
and thrown open, and Chinese lanterns hung in 
the portico and on the pillars of the piazzas. 

At an early hour the Peterkins were arrayed in 
their costumes. The little boys had their legs and 
arms and faces browned early in the day, and wore 
dazzlingly white full trousers and white turbans. 

Elizabeth Eliza had prepared a dress as Queen 
Elizabeth, but Solomon John was desirous that she 
should be Desdemona, and she gave up her cos- 
tume to her mother. Mrs. Peterkin therefore 
wore a red wig which .Ann Maria had found at a 
costumer's, a high ruff, and an old-fashioned bro- 
cade. She was not sure that it was proper for 
Queen Elizabeth to wear spectacles, but Queen 
Elizabeth must have been old enough, as she lived 
to be seventy. As for Elizabeth Eliza, in recalling 
the fact that Desdemona was smothered by pil- 
lows, she was so impressed by it that she decided 
she could wear the costume of a sheet-and-pillow- 
case party. So she wore a white figured silk that 
had been her mother's wedding-dress, and over it 




draped a sheet as a large mantle, and put a pillow- 
case upon her head, and could represent Desde- 
mona not quite smothered. But Solomon John 
wished to carry out the whole scene at the end. 

As they stood together, all ready to receive, in 
the parlor at the appointed hour, Mr. Peterkin sud- 
denly exclaimed: "This will never do! We are 
not the Peterkins — we are distinguished guests! 
We can not receive." 

"We shall have to give up the party," said Mrs. 

"Or our costumes," groaned Agamemnon from 
his ass's head. 

" We must go out, and come in as guests," said 
Elizabeth Eliza, leading the way to a back door, 
for guests were already thronging in, and up the 
front stairs. They passed out by a piazza, through 
the hedge of hollyhocks, toward the front of the 
house. Through the side windows of the library, 
they could see the company pouring in. The 
black attendant was showing them upstairs ; some 
were coming down, in doubt whether to enter the 
parlors, as no one was there. The wide middle 
entrance hall was lighted brilliantly, so were the 
parlors on one side and the library on the other. 

But nobody was there to receive ! A flock of 
guests was assembling, — peasant girls, Italian, 
German, and Norman ; Turks, Greeks, Persians, 
fish-wives, brigands, chocolate-women. Lady Wash- 
ington, Penelope, Red Riding-hood, Joan of Arc, 
nuns. Amy Robsart, Leicester, two or three Mary 
Stuarts, Neapolitan fisher-boys, pirates of Penzance 
and elsewhere, — all lingering, some on the stairs, 
some going up, some coming down. 

Charles L without his head was entering the 
front door (a short gentleman, with a broad ruff 
drawn neatly together on top of his own head, 
which was concealed in his doublet below). 

Three Hindu snake-charmers leaped wildly in 
and out among the throng, flinging about dark, 
crooked sticks for snakes. 

There began to be a strange, deserted air about 
the house. Nobody knew what to do, where to go ! 

"Can anything have happened to the family ? " 

" Have they gone to Egypt? " whispered one. 

No ushers came to show them in. A shudder 
ran through the whole assembly, the house seemed 
so uninhabited, and some of the guests were in- 
clined to go away. The Peterkins saw it all 
through the long librar)-windows. 

" What shall we do ? " said Mr. Peterkin. "We 
have said we should be ' At Home. ' " 

" And here we are, all out-of-doors among the 
hollyhocks," said Elizabeth Eliza. 

" Theie are no Peterkins to ' receive,' " said Mr. 
Peterkin, gloomily. 

"We might go in and change our costumes," 

said Mrs. Peterkin. who already found her Eliza- 
bethan ruff somewhat stiff, " but, alas ! I could not 
get at my best dress." 

" The company is filling all the upper rooms," 
said Elizabeth Eliza; "we can not go back." 

At this moment the little boys returned from the 
front door, and in a subdued whisper explained 
that the lady from Philadelphia was arriving. 

" Oh, bring her here ! " said Mrs. Peterkin. ."^nd 
.Solomon John hastened to meet her. 

.She came, to find a strange group half-lighted 
by the Chinese lanterns. Mr. Peterkin, in his white 
toga, with a green wreath upon his head, came for- 
ward to address her in a noble manner, while she 
was terrified by the appearance of Agamemnon's 
ass's head, half-hidden among the leaves. 

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Mr. Peterkin. 
" There are no Peterkins, yet we have sent cards 
to everybody that they are ' At Home ' ! " 

The lady from Philadelphia, who had been 
allowed to come without costume, considered for a 
moment. She looked through the windows to the 
seething mass now crowdmg the entrance hall. 
The Hindu snake-charmers gamboled about her. 

" H^c will receive as the Peterkin family ! " she 
exclaimed. She inquired for a cap of Mrs. Peter- 
kin's, with a purple satin bow, such, as she had worn 
that very morning. .Amanda was found by a Hin- 
du, and sent for it, and for a purple cross-over 
shawl that Mrs. Peterkin was wont to wear. The 
daughters of the lady from Philadelphia put on 
some hats of the little boys and their India rubber 
boots. Hastily they went in through the back 
door and presented themselves, just as some of 
the wavering guests had decided to leave the 
house, it seeming so quiet and sepulchral. 

The crowd now flocked into the parlors. The 
Peterkins themselves left the hollyhocks and joined 
the company that was entering, Mr. Peterkin, as 
Julius Caesar, leading in Mrs. Peterkin, as Queen 
Elizabeth. Mrs. Peterkin hardly knew what to do, 
as she passed the parlor door, for one of the Os- 
bornes, as Sir Walter Raleigh, flung a velvet cloak 
before her. She was uncertain whether she ought 
to step on it, especially as she discovered at that 
moment that she had forgotten to take off her 
rubber overshoes, which she had put on to go 
through the garden. But as she stood hesitating, 
the lady from Philadelphia, as Mrs. Peterkin, 
beckoned her forward, and she walked over the 
ruby velvet as though it were a door-mat. 

For another surprise stunned her — there were 
three Mrs. Peterkins ! Not only Mrs. Bromwich, 
but their opposite neighbor, had induced Amanda 
to take dresses of Mrs. Peterkin's from the top of 
the trunks, and had come in at the same moment 
with the lady from Philadelphia, ready to receive. 




She stood in the middle of the bow-window at the 
back of the room, the two others in the corners. 
Ann Maria Bromwich had the part of Ehzabcth 
Ehza, and Agamemnon, too, was represented, and 
there were many sets of "Mittle boys" in India 
rubber boots, going in and out with the Hindu 

Mr. Peterkin had studied up his Latin grammar 
a httle, in preparation for his part of JuhusCa;sar. 
Agamemnon had reminded him that it was unnec- 
essary, as Juhus Ca;sar in Shakespeare spoke in 
Enghsh. Still he now found himself using with 
wonderful ease Latin phrases such as "£" pluribiis 
uniiiii," ''lapsus lins;u(t" and "sine qua non" 
where they seemed to be appropriate. 

Solomon John looked well as Othello, although 
by some he was mistaken for an older snake- 
charmer, with his brown complexion, glaring white 
trousers, and white shirt. He wore a white lawn 
turban that had belonged to his great-grandmother. 
His part, however, was more understood when he 
was with Elizabeth Eliza as Dcsdemona, for they 
occasionally formed a tableau, in which he pulled 
the pillow-case completely over her head. 

Agamemnon was greeted with applause as \ick 
Bottom. He sang the song of the "ousel cock," 
but he could not make himself heard. At last 
he found a "Titania" who listened to him. 

But none of the company attempted to carry out 
the parts represented by their costumes. Charles 
L soon conversed with Oliver Cromwell and with 
the different Mary Stuarts, who chatted gayly, as 
though executions were every-day occurrences. 

At first, there was a little awkwardness. Nuns 
stood as quiet as if in their convent cells, and 
brave brigands hid themselves behind the doors, 
but as the different guests began to surprise each 
other, the sounds of laughter and talking in- 
creased. Every new-comer was led up to each 
several Mrs. Peterkin. 

Then came a great surprise — a band of music 
sounded from the piazza. Some of the neighbors 
had sent in the town band, as a farewell tribute. 

This added to the excitement of the occasion. 
Strains of dance-music were heard, and dancing 
was begun. Sir Walter Raleigh led out Penelope, 
and Red Riding-hood without fear took the arm 
of the fiercest brigand for a round dance. 

The various groups wandered in and out. Eliz- 
abeth Eliza studied the costumes of her friends, 
and wished she had tried each one of them. The 
members of the Circumambient Society agreed it 
would be always well to wear costumes at their 
meetings. .As the principles of the society enforced a 

sort of uncertainty, if you always went in a difTerent 
costume you would never have to keep up your 
own character. Elizabeth Eliza thought she should 
enjoy this. She had all her life been troubled 
with uncertainties and questions as to her own 
part of •' Elizabeth Eliza," wondering always if she 
were doing the right thing. It did not seem to her 
that other people had such a bother. Perhaps 
they had simpler parts. They always seemed to 
know when to speak and when to be silent, while 
she was always puzzled as to what she should do 
as Elizabeth Eliza. Now, behind her pillow-case, 
she could look on and do nothing; all that was 
expected of her was to be smothered now and 
then. She breathed freely and enjoyed herself, 
because for the evening she could forget the dif- 
ficult role of Elizabeth Eliza. 

Mrs. Peterkin was bewildered. She thought it 
a good occasion to study how Mrs. Peterkin should 
act; but there were three Mrs. Peterkins. She 
found herself gazing, first at one, then at another. 
Often she was herself called Mrs. Peterkin. 

At supper-time the bewilderment increased. 
She was led in by the Earl of Leicester, as princi- 
pal guest. Yet it was to her own dining-room, 
and she recognized her own forks and spoons 
among the borrowed ones, although the china was 
different (because their own set was not large 
enough to go around for so much company). It 
was all very confusing. The dance-music floated 
through the air. Three Mrs. Peterkins hovered 
before her, and two Agamemnons, for the ass's 
head proved hot and heavy, and Agamemnon was 
forced to hang it over his arm as he offered coffee 
to Titania. There seemed to be two Elizabeth 
Elizas, for Elizabeth Eliza had thrown back her 
pillow-case in order to eat her fruit-ice. Mr. Pe- 
terkin was wondering how Julius Caesar would 
have managed to eat his salad with his fork, before 
forks were invented, and then he fell into a fit of 
abstraction, planning to say '■'Vale" to the guests 
as they left, but anxious that the word should not 
slip out before the time. Eight little boys and 
three Hindu snake-charmers were eating copi- 
ously of frozen pudding. Two Joans of Arc were 
talking to Charles I., who had found his head. All 
things seemed double to Mrs. Peterkin as they 
floated before her. 

" Was she eating her own supper or somebody's 
else?" Were they Peterkins, or were they not? 

Strains of dance-music sounded from the library. 
Yes, they were giving a fancy ball ! The Peter- 
kins were "At Home" for the last time before 
leaving for Egypt ! 



By Edwin Oscar Cooke. 

Hush, baby, hush ! 
In the west there 's a glory, 
With changes of amethyst, crimson, and gold : 
The sun goes to bed like the king in a story- 
Told by a poet of old. 

Hush, baby, hush ! 

There 's a wind on the river — 
A sleepy old wind, with a voice like a sigh ; 
And he sings to the rushes that dreamily quiver, 

Down where the ripples run by. 

Hush, baby, hush ! 

Lambs are drowsily bleating 
Down in cool meadows where daisy-buds grow. 
And the echo, aweary with all day repeating. 

Has fallen asleep long ago. 

Hush, baby, hush ! 
There are katydids calling 
•• C'.ood-night " to each other adown every 

breeze ; 
And the sweet baby-moon has been falling and 
Till now she is caught in the trees. 
Baby, hush ! 

Hush, baby, hush ! 
It is time you were winging 
Your way to the land that lies — no one knows 

where ; 
It is late, baby, late — Mother 's tired with her 
Soon she will follow you there. 
Hush I Babv — Hush! 


Bv John Lewees. 

Nearly all of us have read and heard so much 
about balloons that it is not necessary now to con- 
sider their construction or their history. All that 
is intended in this article is to give an idea of 
some of the unusual experiences of balloonists. 

It is nearly a hundred years since the first bal- 
loon was sent up in France by the brothers Mont- 
golfier, and yet very little advancement has been 
made in the science of ballooning. It is true that 
we can make balloons that will rise as "high as 
human beings can bear to go, but this is proved to 
be of little practical use. In 1862, two English 
gentlemen, Messrs. Glaisherand Coxwell, ascended 
to a height of seven miles above the surface of the 
earth. At this immense height the air was so thin 
and light that they could scarcely breathe ; it was 
intensely cold, the mercury in the thermometer 
going down below zero. One of the gentlemen 
very soon became insensible, while the other was 
so nearly exhausted that he was barely able to seize 
with his teeth the rope which opened a val\e in the 
top of the balloon. In this way a portion of the 
gas was allowed to escape, and they came down 
very rapidly. If they had gone up much higher, 
it is probable that both wolild have perished in 
that cold and dangerous upper air. This ascent 

proves that seven miles is too high above the sur- 
face of the earth for human beings to live in 
comfort or safety. 

Although, as we have just seen, it is perfectly 
possible to make balloons go up into the air to a 
great height, no means ha\e yet been disco\ered 
by which they can be made to move in any required 
direction. Until this is done, balloons can never 
be of much practical use. 

Man)' attempts have been made to devise 
methods by which balloons can be propelled and 
steered, but, up to this time, none of them have 
been found to answer the purpose. In Scrilmcr's 
Monthly for February, 1879, Mr. E. C. Stedman 
described an aerial ship which he invented. His 
theories and plans seem to be quite practicable, and 
when a ship of this kind is made, it is to be hoped 
that we shall be able to navigate the air in any 
direction we please. But this is all in the future. 

Not many years ago there was made in New York 
a balloon in which three gentlemen intended to 
try to cross the Atlantic Ocean. This great balloon 
was not to be propelled b\- any machinery, but to 
be carried on its course by a current of air which it 
is believed continually moves at a certain altitude 
from west to east, across the Atlantic. But this 


SOME UALLUU.N K X !■ K K 1 E .\ C KS. 


balloon was made of poor materials, and it burst 
before it was entirely filled with gas. It is fortunate 
that this accident happened when it did, for if the 
balloon had burst when it was over the ocean, it 
w-ould have been a sad thing for the three gentle- 
men. If this attempt had succeeded, it is probable 
that by this time there would be balloons making 
regular trips to Europe : still I do not know of any 
breeze or current that would blow them back again. 
But, although we arc not yet able to direct the 


course of balloons, they have, in late years, been 
put to some practical use. During our late war, 
balloons were used by the Union army for the pur- 
pose of making military observ-ations. Two of 
them were attached to General McClellan's army, 
and, with the gas generators and other apparatus, 
were drawn about in wagons from place to place. 
When it was desired to make an obser\ation of the 
works or position of the enemy, a balloon with 
several men was sent up to a sufficient height, and 

* See the stor>' of " Puck Parker," in St. 

connected with the ground b\ a rope. From this 
balloon the men could see what the enemy w^as 
doing, and how his forces were disposed, and w^ere 
high enough to be out of gunshot. 

But the most important use to which balloons 
were ever applied was during the siege of Paris, 
in the late war between France and Prussia. It 
was impossible for any one to get out of the city, 
excepting in a balloon, and a number of persons 
availed themselves of this way of leaving Paris.* 
Monsieur Gambetta, the distin- 
guished French statesman, was 
among those who escaped in a 
balloon. These ascents were ver)' 
important, because the balloons 
not only took persons, but car- 
rier-pigeons, and these pigeons 
afterward flew back to Paris bear- 
ing news from the outside world ; 
and in no other way could the 
besieged citizens get such news. 
Some of the balloons came down 
in the French provinces, some 
were blown over to England, and 
one was carried across the North 
Sea into Sw eden. Some of them 
came down among the Prussians, 
and their unfortunate occupants 
were captured by the enemy. Out 
of the sixty-four balloons which 
left Paris during the siege, only 
two were lost and never heard of 

One of the advantages enjoyed 
by balloonists is, that they can 
in a measure choose their own 
weather, especially in the sum- 
mer-time. 15y this I mean that 
they can rise above the clouds- 
into dear sunlight, no matter 
how dreary or storm)- it may be 
near the earth, and they can go- 
up high enough to be just as cool 
as they could possibly wish. 

In one of their ascensions, 
Messrs. Glaisher and Coxwell, of 
whom I have before spoken, left 
the earth in a balloon on a cloudy, sultry day in June. 
They passed through cloud after cloud, fog after 
fog, expecting every moment to come out into 
sunlight, and to see the blue sky above them ; but 
they went upward through this vast mass of fog 
and cloud until they had attained a height of four 
miles ; and still they were not out of the clouds. 
It was not considered prudent to go any higher, 
and so they very reluctantly began to descend 
without having penetrated through these immense 

Nicholas for .April, 1878. Page 416. 




layers of cloud and fog. On coming down, they 
passed through a fall of rain, and then, some 
distance below that, through a snow-storm, the air 
all about them being thick with snow-flakes. This, 
it must be remembered, was in the summer-time, 
when the people on the earth had no idea that a 
snow-storm was going on above them, or that the 
clouds they saw over them were four miles thick. 
On another occasion, three balloonists went upward 
through a snow-storm \ery much like the one 
which Messrs. Cylaisher and Coxwell passed through 
during their descent. 

People who make balloon voyages very often 
take birds with them, especially pigeons, which 

they let loose at a great height. When not too 
high above the earth, pigeons frequently fly di- 
rectly to their homes, but at ■ a height of three or 
four miles they sometimes seem bewildered, and 
act as if they did not know how to find their way 
back to the ground. They fly around and 
around, and occasionally alight upon the top of 
the balloon, and stay there. Sometimes, when the 
height is very great, the air is too thin to support 
a flying bird, and the pigeon drops like lead until 
it reaches denser air, when it is able to fly. 

Dogs and cats are often taken up. They are 
sent down attached to a parachute, which is a 
contrivance like an immense umbrella, and is 




intended to prevent the rapid fall of anything 
suspended beneath it; the resistance of the air 
under the wide-spreading parachute causing it 
to descend very slowly and gradually. In this 
way, cats and dogs have come to the ground from 
balloons without receiving any injury, although 
it is not to be supposed that they fancied the trip. 

lialloonists themselves ha\e frequently come 
down to the earth in parachutes, descending from 
a height of one or two miles. Generally these 
descents have been made in safety, yet there have 
been cases when the parachutes were not properly 
constructed, and when the unfortunate balloonists 
came down too fast, and were killed. 

Not only when they descend b\' means of a jiara- 
chute, do air-voyagers, or aeronauts, as they are 
called, run great risks of injury or death, but also 
when they come down in their balloons. In fact, 
it is much easier and safer to go up in a balloon than 

perienccd balloonists frequently manage to come 
down very gradually and gently, but sometimes the 
car of the balloon strikes the earth with a great 
shock; and if the wind is strong, the balloon is 
often blown along just above the surface of the 
ground, striking against trees, fences, and rocks, 
until its occupants, or some persons on the 
ground, manage to stop it. 

But a descent into a river, a lake, or an ocean is 
one of the greatest dangers that a balloonist can 
expect. As I have before said, there has been 
no way devised by which a balloon may be made 
to move in any desired direction. Consequently 
when one comes down o\cr the water the aeronaut 
generally endeavors to throw out all his sand-bags 
and other heavy things, in order that the balloon 
may rise again, and not come down until it has 
been blown over the land. 

With regard to rivers and small lakes, this plan 

•sometimes nli'l'INti THE CAR INTO THE WAVES 

to come down in one. It is seldom possible for may often be successful, but when the balloon is 

the aeronaut to know exactly, or to regulate just being carried out to sea, it generally comes down 

as he would wish, the rapidity of its descent. Ex- into the water sooner or later, and if the balloonists 

Vol. IX.— 3. 




arc not rescued by some passing boat or 
vessel, they are ahiiost certain to be 
drowned. In cases such as these, the 
balloons are often blown for a long dis- 
tance over the surface of the ocean, some- 
times dipping the car into the waves, 
then, perhaps, rising a little and sailing 
for a short distance above them, and then 
dragging the car and its occupants with 
great rapidit)- through the water. The 
lower picture on this page shows an inci- 
dent that occurred on the land in Octo- 
ber, 1863. An immense balloon, built 
by M. Nadar, and appropriately named 
"Le Geant" [The Giant], rose from 
Paris and made a pleasant voyage in the 
air. But when it neared the earth again, 
the vast ball was seized by the wind, and 
lor hours the two-story car of wicker-work 
was dashed against rocks, trees, and 
houses, until the nine travelers, with 
broken limbs and many bruises, were 
rescued near Rethom, in Hanover. Many 
people would be frightened to death, even 
if they were not actually killed, during 
such adventures as these ; but aeronauts 
must, of necessity, be brave men, for if 
a man is easily frightened, it is a wise 
thing for him to keep out of a balloon. 

As 1 have said, balloons were found 
useful during the Civil War in the United 
States, but the first time a balloon was 
employed in warfare was at the battle of 




FIcurus, Belgium, in 1794, between the French 
and the Austrians. Upon this occasion the balloon 
was managed as a kite, in the manner shown in 
the upper picture on the preceding page. 

Sometimes balloonists have had very curious 
ideas. Mr. CIreen, one of the most distinguished 
aijronauts of England, once made an ascent on the 
back of a pony. The animal was so fastened on 
a platform beneath the car that he could not lie 
down nor move about. His owner then got upon 
his back, and the balloon rose high into the air. 
They came down in perfect safety, and the pony 
did not appear to have made the slightest objection 
to his ai^rial flight. Other aiJronauts have made 
successful ascents on horseback and in various 
dangerous ways, but some of them lost their lives 
while performing these fool-hardy feats. 

Occasionally balloonists make long voyages. 
Mr. Wise, our greatest American aeronaut, once 
made a trip of one thousand one hundred and 
twenty miles in a balloon. He was a very suc- 
cessful balloonist. He made several hundred as- 
cents, and was one of the few aeronauts who 
possessed a scientific "knowledge of his profession. 

He made a study of air-currents, and all matters 
relating to ballooning, and wrote a book on the 
subject. It is not long, however, since he lost 
his life during a balloon journey, so wc see that 
even the most experienced navigators of the air 
arc not free from danger. 

But the practiced balloonist does not seem to 
fear danger any more than does the sailor, who 
steers his ship across the stormy ocean. There 
seems to be a fascination about ballooning, and 
some persons have made a great many ascents. 
Mr. tireen made more than five hundred ascents 
in balloons. He, however, escaped all serious 
dangers, and died at a good old age. 

The incidents which 1 have described show that, 
although balloons have, so far, been of little prac- 
tical service to mankind, the people who are fond 
of rising two or three miles into the air very 
often meet with curious experiences, and that 
these unusual things generally occur when they 
are descending to the earth. If any of us could 
feel certain that it was not necessary for us to 
come down again, it might be a very pleasant and 
prudent thing to go up in a balloon. 

"mister BWOWN takes sister AN.NIE VIDI.n' 'most EV\ y DAY. 'CAISE SHI-: 's A BID DIKE, I s'POSE. WONDER WHAT MADK 






Bv E. S. L. 

St. Nicholas already has given to its readers a 
paper telling " About the Painter of Little Penel- 
ope," but there is one interesting incident in the 
history of that same little Penelope and her noble 
artist-friend which was not told in the former arti- 
cle, and which, I think, you may like to hear. And 
first let me say that aside from his renown as a 
painter of hundreds of glorious pictures, Sir Joshua 
has left many pleasant memories of his kind and 
noble nature. It was shown very often in his great 
love for children, whose portraits he was so wonder- 
fully successful in delineating. Perhaps none of 
his paintings are more famous than the two pictures 
of little " Lady Penelope Boothby " and " The 
Strawberry Girl," both of which St. NICHOLAS 
already has shown you ; * and still another of his 
beautiful pictures of this kind is the portrait of 
little Miss Frances Harris, given as the frontispiece 
of the present number. Sir Joshua had many girl 
and boy friends to whom he was very much 
attached, but perhaps he was most fond of the 
sweet-faced Penelope Boothby, the only child 
of Sir Brook Boothby. He was never too busy 
with palette and brush to grant admittance at 
the tiny knock of little Penelope, who often 
would be taken by her faithful nurse to Sir 
Joshua's studio, and left there for hours, to 
beguile her " own, ownest friend " by her sweet 
ways and her pretty turns of speech. The little 
one was always ready to quietly pose for him, 
whenever he wished to "take her picture." His 
favorite way of portraying her was as she looked 
when she was " dressed up " in a fine old cap of 
his grandmother Reynolds, from which her baby face 
beamed out upon him "like a ray from Heaven." 

And now comes the story of the wonderful June 
day when this little girl — scarcely then in her 
sixth year — was missing from her pleasant home. 
"High and low," all over the house, and 
all about the lovely grounds, had her anx- 
ious mamma, her young aunt Hester, and 
every servant, looked after, and called for, their 
little Penelope. She was nowhere to be found — 
at least so it seemed — certainly not in the fine old 
house, even in the most unused nook or corner. 
Her own devoted nurse was very sick in bed that 
day, and they did not, at first, venture to disturb 
her with news of her missing pet. But, as the 
vain search continued, they could not delay any 
longer seeking wise Joan's advice and sympathy. 
'^ Go to the studio for hcr,^' said the sick woman, 

at once ; " this is one of the days when I take her 
there." It seemed incredible to the distressed 
family that their little child, hitherto so tenderly 
guarded, could have attempted to thread her way 
tlirough the crowded streets of London ! Yet, 
they hastened to follow poor Joan's counsel without 
delay, their hearts all the while filled with most 
fearful forebodings. So, as soon as the carriage 
and horses could be brought to the door, Mrs. 
Boothby and her sister -were off at a quick pace, 
you may be sure, for Leicester square, where Sir 
Joshua had his studio. 

They never forgot how long that summer morn- 
ing's drive seemed to them, or how breathlessly 
they each looked up and down every street they 
passed through ; or how, several times during the 
ride, now the mother, and again the aunt, would 
fancy, for the moment, that 'she liad surely caught 
a far away glimpse of the lost Penelope ! 

Their keen anxiety, however, was all over the 
moment they stepped within the painter's rich 
octagonal studio. For there, safe and happy 
enough, they found the little runaway, under the 
watchful care of Sir Joshua and his beautiful niece, 
Offy Palmer. She was snugly curled up, fast 
asleep after her long walk, in the elevated mahog- 
an)' arm-chair where dukes and duchesses, lords 
and ladies, and very many children, had sat for 
their portraits. 

Upon his little friend's unattended arrival, Sir 
Joshua had immediately sent a messenger to her 
home, to tell her parents of the child's safety. 

But this messenger the mamma and aunt had 
missed, unhappily, on account of their coachman's 
having driven by a shorter route than the usual 
one. But they were glad to feel that even before 
they could reach home the sick nurse Joan, who 
tenderly lo\-ed her little charge, would receive the 
good tidings that little Penelope was safe. 

You may well suppose that there were great and 
wondering rejoicings at the large round tea-table 
of the Boothbys, that same evening, especially 
when the young daughter's remarkable promenade 
was once more told anew to her doting papa, — Sir 
Joshua at the same time dwelling uith renewed 
delight upon his astonishment and pleased sur- 
prise at the entrance of his little morning caller. 

A very precious memory, too, did this incident 
become to the loving heart of the great painter, 
when, not long after, his sunny visitor passed on 
before him into the better life. 

* See St. Nicholas for November, 1875, and .April, 1876. 





i^'.:^e^i '^'^ 




'•N "l 

'ill i/^^lS^ 

li 1 





By Eudora M. Stone Bumstead. 

Our Ollie went to his bed 

With tears just back of his eyes, 

And a pain, because, as his sister said, 
He was "overly fond of pies." 
He dreamed the dreadfullest dreams — 
As dreadful as they could be ; 

For a big, big piece of pie, it seems, 
Is a bad, bad thing for tea. 

He dreamed of a terrible snow 

That fell from an inky sky, 
And every flake that the winds did blow 

Was big as a pumpkin pie ! 

All in a heap 't was laid, 

While the rude winds laughed in glee. 
But oh, the deep, deep drift that it made 

Was a sad, sad thing to see ! 

Then he thought the Summer was dead. 

And Winter would always stay ; 
That an iceberg ledge was his only bed. 

And a glacier his home by day. 

And the Sun, too late he rose. 

And he went to bed too soon. 
And a long, long icicle hung from the nose 

Of the cold, cold Man-in-the-moon. 

He turned to his sister; oh. 

How lonely and sad he felt 
When he found she was made of ice and snow 

Which a hug would be sure to melt ! 

Just think of the dreams he had, 

As dreadful as dreams could be ! 
Oh, a big, big piece of pie is bad 

For a small, small boy at tea ! 


By Paul Fort. 

The Verney children were very proud of their 
great-grandfather. It is not every boy and girl 
who knows who his or her great-grandfather was. 
The Verney children knew all about the individual 
who occupied this position in their family ; and, as 
I said before, they \i'ere very proud of him. Mr. 
Verney, the children's father, took a great interest 
in his family history; and once, when on a visit to 
England, had traced back his line of ancestors to 
the time of the Norman Conquest. To be sure, 
the family name was then De Vernaye, but it 
is well known that our forefathers often spelt their 
names very differently from the way in which we 
spell ours. There was also a break in the line 
of ancestry from 1590 to 1670, during which period 
a part of the family was supposed to have emi- 
grated to America. A good many English fami- 
lies did emigrate to America about this time, and 
if the De Vernaye family were coming at all, it is 
probable that they came then. There was also 
another break from the period of this supposed 
emigration down to the time of the great-grand- 
father whom the Verney children knew all about. 
But it was so evident in the mind of Mr. Verney 
that these gaps could be satisfactorily filled up, if 
he could only get hold of the proper records, that 
the omissions in his line of ancestors did not 

trouble him at all. While in England, he had 
visited the old castle of the Guysters, into which 
family the De Vernaycs were said to have married 
about the time Mr. \'erney lost track of them. In 
this castle was a mailed figure, seated in a chair, 
which figure, Mr. Verney was positive from certain 
marks on the armor, was intended to represent Sir 
Leopold De X'^ernaye, who must have been his 

Mr. Verney would have been very glad to buy 
this figure and set it up in his library at home, 
because very few, or none, indeed, of his friends 
had mailed figures of their ancestors. But the 
idea of having a mailed figure in his library was 
so attractive to Mr. Verney that he bought a suit 
of old armor in England and took it home w-ith 
him. It was not such handsome armor as that 
worn by the proud Sir Leopold, but it would do 
very well, and was far better in his eyes than the 
old Continental uniforms of which some of his 
neighbors were so proud. 

This suit of mail he had properly set up on a 
pedestal in his library, which room was handsomely 
furnished with old-fashioned chairs, a high clock, 
and other furniture that looked as if it had belonged 
at some time to ancient families. 

The books had formerly been kept in the library, 




but as the book-cases did not suit the other fur- 
niture, they had been removed to an upper room. 

This figure he showed to his friends as a speci- 
men of the kind of armor his ancestors must have 
worn. " The brave wearer of this mail," he would 
say, '• had certainly done some hard fighting, and 
these dents and those breaks in the mail were prob- 

In course of time this suit of armor, and the 
armed figure of the De Vernaye, about which 
their father talked so much, became so mixed up 
in the minds of the \'erney children, that they 
really supposed that the figure of the mailed 
knight in the library represented one of their an- 
cestors, and before very long, some of tlie younger 


ably made when he couched his lance or drew his 
sword in the battles of Hastings and Marston .Moor." 
Some of Mr. Verney's visitors, who remembered 
English history, knew that this individual must 
have lived a very long life indeed if he had fought 
in both the battles of Hastings and Marston Moor, 
but they were too polite to say anything about it. 

visitors to the house actually began to think it 
was the great-grandfather about whom the Verncys 
talked so much. 

The nearest neighbors and most intimate friends 
of the Verneys were the Greens. The children 
of this family had no idea who their Green great- 
grandfather was. Their father was not living, and 




their mother really did not know anything about 
her husband's grandfather. She believed that he 
had lived somewhere out West, but she was not 
positive even about this. She knew who her own 
grandfather was, but this did not matter, as she 
herself did not actually belong to the Green 
family. But in spite of this want of ancestry, the 
Green children could run as fast, and jump as high, 
and were just as clever at their lessons, and had as 
good manners, as the Verney boys and girls with 
their family line. 

Leopold and Edgarda Verney, who were about 
fifteen and sixteen years old, were very proud of 
their high descent, and sometimes looked down 
rather grandly upon the Greens ; whereas the chil- 
dren of the latter family, especially Tom Green, a 
tall boy of seventeen, were quite fond of making 
fun of the Verneys' family pride. 

One afternoon, Tom Green called to see Leopold 
and Edgarda, but finding they were not at home, 
he resolved to wait a little while for them, and sat 
down in the library. While there, it struck him it 
would be a good idea to try on the coat of mail 
which stood in the room. He had often wished to 
do this, for he desired very much to know how an 
ancient knight had felt when clad in his heavy suit 
of mill ; but he had never cared to ask permission, 
for he knew the ^'erneys would not like it. But now 
he thought it would be no harm just to try on the 
things, and so, hastily removing the cuirass and 
the other pieces of mail, and their props and sup- 
ports, he put them, as well as he could, upon him- 
self. He tried to walk about, but they were so 
heavy he could scarcely move. 

" If I wanted to fight anybody," he said to him- 
self, "I should take these things off before I began." 

He was just about to remove the awkward and 
heavy mail, when he heard footsteps approaching 
the library-door. " Here come Leopold and 
Edgarda," he said to himself, " and I will give them 
a little scare." 

So saying, he took his stand upon the pedestal, 
and put himself as nearly as possible in the position 
in which the figure had been placed. But, instead 
of the older brother and sister, there came into the 
room two small children, Fitz Eustace and Rowena 
Verney, with their little dog Tip. Pitz, as he was 
generally called, wore a paper soldier-cap, and 
carried a drum and a toy sword. 

" Hello ! " he cried, when he came into the 
room, "here is somebody I can fight with my new 
sword. Nurse says I must n't fight \ou or Tip, 
but I can't hurt our old 'cestor, so I am going to 
fight him." 

"You ought to say 'ancestor,'" said Rowena, 
" and you ought n't to fight him either, for I guess 
he was a very good man." 

" I don't believe he was good," said Fitz, draw- 
ing a chair near to the figure, " and I am going to 
stand on this chair and whack his head." 

" Why was n't he good ? " asked Rowena. 

" Because he was a coward," said Fitz. 

" Why was he a coward ? " asked Rowena, who 
always had a "why" for everything. 

" Because," answered Fitz, trying to reach the 
helmet with his tin sword, "he wore these iron 
clothes, which nobody could stick him through, 
and did n't only fight other fellows W'ith iron 
clothes, but he cut and jabbed the poor soldiers, 
who had only common clothes on, which any 
spear or sword could go through, knowing all the 
time, too, that they could n't cut and jab him 
back. Tom Green told me all this." 

" I don't believe he was a coward at all," said 
Rowena. " Edgarda has often read me stories 
about these old knights, and they were always just 
as kind to poor ladies and little children as ever 
they could be. That is n't being a coward." 

" But he did n't have to put on his iron clothes 
to be kind," said Fitz. " It was only when he had 
them on that he was a coward." And the boy- 
made another crack at the figure's head. 

" I don't believe he was ever anything of the 
kind," said Rowena, taking the great mailed hand 
affectionately in her own, while the little dog Tip 
sniffed around the knight's feet in a way he had 
never done before. 

" This glove feels exactly as if it had fingers in 
it," said Rowena. 

At this moment the figure spoke. 

"If I am a coward, young man," it said, "I 
should like to know what you are." 

At these words Fitz Eustace dropped into the 
chair as if he had been shot, while Rowena stood 
as if petrified by fear. 

"Here is a boy," continued the figure, "who 
comes and strikes a person who can not strike him 
back, and then begins to call people cowards." 

" I did n't know you was alive," said Fitz, almost 
beginning to cry, while Rowena ran and threw her 
arms around her brother. 

" 1 suppose not," said the figure, "or you would 
not have struck me. Do you know who I am ? " 

"Yes, you are our 'cestor," said Fitz, preparing 
to slip out of the chair. 

" Well, then, you need n't run away," said the 
figure. "You have seen me all your lives, and 
you ought to know by this time that I will not 
hurt you. Would you like to hear a story? " 

The idea of hearing a story from anybody was 
delightful to Rowena, and a story from the old 
ancestor was something she could not resist, 
frightened as she was ; so she whispered to her 
brother : 



" Let 's listen to his story. Mc can't move. He 
can't hurt us." 

Rowcna now clambered into the chair beside her 
brother, and the figure proceeded. 

" You think it is a fine thing, do you not," he 
said, " to have an ancestor who has been very 
grand and has done great deeds ? " 

"Oh, yes, sir," said Rowcna, speaking for her- 
self and Fitz, who had not yet recovered. 

time of the year, the fairies used to preserve and 
pickle a great quantity of chipply-berries." 

"What are they, sir?" asked Rowena. 

" They were a kind of berries the fairies were 
very fond of There are none of them now, so 
there is no use telling you what they were like. 
They were the fairies' principal food during the 
winter, and so they needed a great many of them 
at preserving and pickling time. Therefore, on a 



"Well, then," said the 'cestor, " I want you to 
pay particular attention to my story. Once there 
was a fairy godmother. She had been godmother 
to a great many children, but at the time I am 
speaking of, she was godmother to only one boy 
and a girl. Their names were Ramp and Bra- 
mette. They were not brother and sister, but they 
were acquainted with each other. At a certain 

certain day of every year, the people of the coun- 
try round about used to give up ewerylhing else, 
and go to work gathering chipply-berries for the 
fairies, for it was considered a great thing to be 
on good terms with these little folk. When the 
day for gathering chipply-ljcrries came, at the 
time I tell you of, the fairy godmother called 
Ramp and Bramette to her. ' I am very anxious,' 




she said, ' that my two godchildren sliould dis- 
tinguish themselves on this day; and, tlierefore, I 
am going to offer a prize for you to work for. 
Whichever of you succeeds the better in the 
labors of to-day shall have this diamond, which 
you see is as big as the largest chipply-beny.' 
The children were delighted at this offer, and 
ran away to the chipply-fields. In the evening 
the fairy godmother came to see what they had 
done. Bramette had a bushel-basket full of ber- 
ries. ' Did you gather all these?' asked the fairy. 
'Oh, no,' said Bramette, 'they were nearly all 
gathered by my father and mother, my grand- 
father and grandmother, who are the best chipply- 
berry gatherers in this district.' 'But did not you 
gather any of them ? ' asked the fairy. ' 1 believe 
I did pick a few at first,' said Bramette, 'but 1 
liked best to measure them as they were brought 
in, to see how many we were getting.' 'Then 
they are not really yours,' said her godmother. 
'Oh, yes, they are,' answered Bramette. 'Father 
and mother, and grandfather and grandmother, 
said that 1 could call them all my own, so that I 
might try for the prize. ' 

"'And what have you done ?' said the fair)-, 
turning to Ramp. ' I have only gathered these,' 
said the boy, producing a quart-pot full of chipply- 
berries, ' but I think they are all good ones. ' 
' Yes,' said the fairy, turning them out, ' they are 
fine, sound berries, but are these all you could 
get ?' ' Yes, ma'am,' answered Ramp, ' I would n't 
pick the little withered ones, and it was hard work 
finding these big fellows. I had to climb all day 
upon the hill-sides and among the rocks.' 'The 
diamond is yours,' said the fairy godmother. 
' What you have brought, you have gathered 
yourself, and all the credit is your own. Bramette 
owes her berries entirely to her parents and grand- 
parents. She has a great many more berries than 
you have, but she gathered none of them herself. 
Let this be a lesson to you, Bramette,' she con- 
tinued. 'It is very well that your father and 
mother, and grandfather and grandmother, are 
the best chipply-beny gatherers in the district; 
but that makes you no better, and gives you no 
reason to think well of yourself. If you wish to be 
justly proud, you must do something to be proud 
of, and not rely on what your ancestors have done.' 

"That is my story," said the figure, "and I wish 
you to remember it, and to tell it to your older 
brother and sister. Don't 1 hear them now, com- 
ing in at the front door ? " 

"Yes, sir," cried Fitz and Rowena. And they 
instantly jumped down from the chair and ran to 
tell the wonderful news to Leopold and Edgarda, 
while, the moment they were out of the room, Tom 
Green made haste to take off his hot and heavv 

armor, which had begun to be very uncomfortable, 
and to set it up .as it was before. 

As soon as the two children met their brother 
and sister in the hall, they began to talk together. 

"What do you think!" cried Fitz. "The 
'cestor has been telling us a story ! " 

" He talked just like a real man ! " said Rowena. 

" What ! " exclaimed Leopold. 

" He said he was not a coward ! " cried Rowena. 

" And they gathered chipply-berries," cried Fitz. 

"What ! " exclaimed their sister Edgarda. 

" And he said if you want to do a thing you 
must do it yourself," said Rowena. 

" .\nd Ramp only got a quart-pot full," cried 

" What ! " exclaimed Leopold. 

" And people are cowards when they strike peo- 
ple and can't get struck back," said Rowena. 

" And they pickled and preserved them," cried 

" What ! " exclaimed Edgarda. 

" .And it don't do for your grandfathers to work 
for you," said Rowena. 

"And they must have been awful good, and 
Bramette had a whole bushel of them," said Fitz. 

" What do you mean ? " cried Leopold. 

" But Ramp did his own work," said Rowena. 

"I wish I had been Bramette!" cried Fitz. 
" She must have had chipply-berries enough for 
all the fairies and herself too." 

" What are you talking about ? " asked Ed- 

" But then. Ramp got the diamond," said 

'■ But he could n't eat that," said Fitz. 

At this moment, Tom Green walked into the 
hall from the library. 

" Why, Tom ! " cried Leopold. " Where did you 
come from ? " 

" I have been here some little time, and I just 
waited in the library for you to come home." 

" Oh, I know now ! " exclaimed Edgarda. " 1 
know all about it. You have been putting on that 
armor in the library, and playing a trick on these 

" Well," said Tom, laughing, " it was n't exactly 
a trick. I was only trying to tell them a story " 

" it a moral ? " asked Leopold. 

" Well — yes," answered Tom, hesitatingly, " it 
did have a kind of a moral. " 

"What was it? " asked Edgarda. 

"I can't put it into exactly the right words," 
said Tom, "but I meant it to carry out my idea, 
that I would rather the people I know should be 
proud of me, than to be proud myself of anybody 
who is dead. But I did not come here to say all 
this. I came to talk about the Archery Club." 


T H E C A R N 1 V U K 1 S T 1 C t) U S OUNCE. 


Bv Mks. M. K. Ki.akk. 

There once was a beast called an Ounce, 

Who went with a spring and a bounce. 
His head was as flat 
As the head of a cat, 

This quadrui)edantical Ounce, 

'Tical Ounce, 

This quadrupcdantical Ounce. 

You 'd think from his name he was small, 

But that was not like him at all; — 

He weighed, 1 '11 be bound. 
Three or four hundred pound. 

And he looked most uncommonly tall. 
'.Monly tall. 

He looked most uncommonly tall. 

He sprang on his prey with a pounce. 

And gave it a jerk and a trounce ; 

Then crunched up its bones 
On the grass or the stones. 

This camivoristicous Ounce, 

'Ticous Ounce ! 

This camivoristicous Ounce ! 

When a hunter he 'd meet on the shore, 

He 'd give a wild rush and a roar — 
His claws he 'd unsheath. 
And he 'd show all his teeth, — 

But the man would be seen nevermore, 
Ne\-ermore ! 

The man would be seen nevermore 1 

I 'd rather — 1 'm telling you true — 

Meet with three hundred weight of a Gnu, 

A .Sea- Horse or Whale, 

Or a Cow with a tail, 
Th,-in an Ounce of this kind — would n't j'dii/ 

Would n't you ? 
Than an Ounce of this kind — would nU you? 





By Emma K. Parrish. 

Johnny Podge was writing invitations to a 
birthday party, which was to take place the next 
Saturday, owing to his being eleven years of age 
on that day. He had hurried home from school 
and partaken hastily of a few doughnuts, just to 
ward off utter starvation ; and now he was seated 
at a little stand in the kitchen, with his head low 
down on his left arm, and his eyes rolling after the 
strokes of his awkward pen. 

He had ended one invitation with "Yours 
respectively," and another with "Yours respecta- 
bly," and he was thinking whether some other 
word would n't be better, when his mother, who 
was making bread at the kitchen table, remarked : 

" How it does snow ! but I hope it will be pleas- 
ant on Saturday." 

"What for?" asked Johnny, innocently. 

" Why, for your party, of course." 

Johnny laughed slyly. He knew well enough 
"what for," but he liked all the direct allusions to 
his party that could be obtained, and his mother's 
first remark had not been pointed enough. Feel- 
ing very good-natured, now that he had had his 
little joke, he condescended to ask his mother's 
advice about wording the invitations. 

"Would you say, 'Please come to a birthday 
party to Johnny Podge's'? or would you say, 
' Come to my house to a party next Saturday ' ? " 

"Oh, 1 don't know," said his mother, musingly, 
as she patted a loaf into shape. " Seems to me 
they put it a little different, but I can't remember 
how. You 'd better wait until Pa comes ; he '11 
know all about it. Pa 's been a great party 

"Oh, I can't wait; I have so many to write, I 
sha' n't have them ready if I don't hurry." 

Johnny laboriously completed his third invita- 
tion, and addressed it to a little girl ; and, as she 
was a very nice little girl, and very saucy, too, he 
was troubled in mind on account of a large blot 
with which he had inadvertently adorned the last 
line of his note. 

Then there came a soft knock at the back door. 

" Go to the door, Johnny ; my hands are all in 
the dough, " said his mother. 

Johnny opened the door, and there stood no- 
body ; but, in a moment, Hugh McCoUom peered 
around the corner of the shed. 

" Say, come out a minute, wont you ? " he whis- 

"Oh, come in," said Johnny; "it snows so." 

"No, you come out; I want to speak to you." 
And he held to view a large square parcel, wrapped 
in brown paper. 

Johnny stepped out and closed the door. 

" Now," began Hugh ; and then he stopped and 
untied the parcel nervously. His face showed that 
he had been crying, in the way that boys' faces 
sometimes demonstrate grief, namely, by pale 
marks where the tears had washed their way. 

" What 's the matter? " asked Johnny. " What 
makes your face so streaked ? " 

"Mother, she 's sick, and the doctor he said the 
medicine would n't cost much, and it costs a dol- 
lar. I 've got a quarter, but the drug man 
would n't give me less than a dollar's worth ; so I 
thought if you 'd let me have the other seventy- 
five cents, I 'd give you all my pictures. You 
know you wanted to buy them, once ? " 

Johnny had been eager to buy the pictures when 
he first saw them, but just now he wanted all his 
pennies to buy refreshments for Saturday's festivi- 
ties ; and, for a few seconds, he felt very miserly, 
and wished Hugh had staid away. But he 
remembered a good many things during those 
seconds, — among others, that he once was sick 
himself, and that it was dreadful to be sick; so he 
said, with a little sigh, as he thought of the van- 
ishing candies : " Come in, and let 's look at them. 
1 think I '11 buy them." 

Hugh came in, hesitatingly, and took off his cap 
to Mrs. Podge. 

"How do you do, Hughie ? and is your ma 
well?" asked Mrs. Podge. 

"No, ma'am ; she 's sick." 

"Why, what 's the matter with her?" 

"The doctor said, a fever on her lungs." 

" Oh dear ! but that is bad ! I must go over to 
see her this very evening." 

Johnny brought out his diary, in which he kept 
his money, and he encouraged Hugh to spread the 
drawings on the kitchen table, where they called 
forth volumes of admiration from Mrs. Podge. 

" I never saw anything half so beautiful ! " she 
exclaimed. " Did you do them yourself, Hughie? " 

"Yes, 'm," said Hugh, meekly; "an' Johnny, 
he said may be he 'd buy them." 

" The doctor gave him a perskiption, an' it costs 
a dollar to make it," said Johnny, explaining, 
"and Hughie said he 'd take seventy-five cents 
for the pictures ; but 1 'm not going to keep them 
all," he added, bravely. 




"Oh, yes, you can have even- one," said Hugh, 

" No, my son," said Mrs. Podge, shaking her 
head. " You sha' n't take them all. That would 
be as bad as robbing the fatherless. I know 
they 're worth a great deal of money ; Mrs. Blakely 
has pictures in her parlor, no handsomer than 
these, that cost three dollars apiece ! It might 
have been the frames, though — they had beautiful 
gold frames, with red cord and everything. But 
you must take only a few, Johnny." 

Johnny counted out seventy-tlvc cents, which 
left the little pocket of his diary almost empty, 
and handed the money to Hughic, with several of 
the drawings. 

Hughie's noon hours and evenings and Satur- 
days were mostly spent with his pencil, which per- 
haps accounted for his weak eyes, into which the 
tears would keep coming, as he shoved on his cap 
and hurried away « ith the remainder of his draw- 
ings, muttering a choked sort of " thank ye " as he 
went out. 

He ran to the drug store, and again presented 
the prescription, this time laying down the money 
with it. His mother thought he had been gone a 
long time, but it was not her way to complain, and 
when he returned, she merely asked : 

" Did you get the medicine ? " 

" Here it is, mother," said Hugh, joyfully. He 
brought a cup from the pantry, and prepared the 
medicine as directed by the label on the bottle. 

The rest of his drawings he had left in the wood- 
shed. He had quietly abstracted them from his 
box without his mother's knowledge, and in like 
manner they were returned when the medicine had 
accomplished the soothing effect of putting her to 
sleep ; and so the good woman did not know for 
many days of the sacrifice the boy had made in 
parting with his treasured drawings. He stirred 
around softly, putting coal in the stove, and getting 
his supper of oatmeal porridge and baked potatoes, 
with a mind immensely relieved, for he had per- 
fect faith in medicine of any sort, if only prescribed 
by a doctor. 

Mrs. McCollom was ver\- poor, and it did seem 
as if she always would be. The neighbors occa- 
sionally had spasms of generosity, in which they 
gave her all the help her Scotch pride would per- 
mit ; but these did not go far nor last long, and 
before any one knew it, down she was again, poorer 
than ever. 

Johnny Podge was very silent at supper that 
evening, and seemed to be meditating something 
unpleasant and perplexing. 

" Mrs. McCollom is sick," said Mrs. Podge, to 
her husband, " and I think I '11 run around there 
when the baby's asleep." 

So, when the dishes were washed, and the baby 
was asleep in the cradle, Mrs. Podge put a shawl 
over her head, and went to sec Mrs. McCollom. 

"Is Hugh's mother very sick?" Mr. Podge 
inquired of Johnny, as he sat rocking the cradle. 

" Yes, Pa ; an' I bought some pictures of him to 
pay for medicine, an' I 've only got about thirteen 
cents left ; an' Pa, I was thinking prob'ly you 
would n't want to spare more 'n the three dollars 
you promised, so may be 1 can't have the party 
this time." 

'• Well, my son, wont three dollars be enough ? " 

" No, for I was going to have about twenty come, 
and I 'd want as much as six pounds of candy, so 
as not to look stingy, and 1 promised Ma I 'd pay 
for the raisins if she 'd put 'em in thick in the cake ; 
and there 's a lot of other things to get, besides. 
I have n't invited anybody yet, and I could get out 
of having the party, easy : and may be you 'd let 
Hughic have the money, instead. He's an awful 
good boy to his mother." 

" How many have you told about the party ? " 
asked his father. 

" Nobody but one boy; he sits with me, and I 
told him not to tell." 

" Probably not more than twenty boys know 
about it by this time, then," said his father, laugh- 

" Oh, no ! he said ' honest injun ' he would n't 
tell, and he 's an awful good boy," said Johnny. 
" His name is Harry Holdclose." 

" His name is enough recommendation," said 
Mr. Podge, with another laugh. 

The vow of " honest injun," in Johnny's opinion, 
was one of great solemnity, and he had never 
known a boy so depraved as to break it. 

Mr. Podge thought the matter over as he rocked 
the cradle and gazed out of the window at the sky 
bright with a full moon and ever so many stars. 
The storm was all gone, and nothing was left to 
remember it by, excepting the snow. 

Mrs. Podge returned a little depressed. It was 
quite late, and Johnny had fallen asleep on the 
kitchen lounge. " I never did see folks quite so 
poor, but everything is just as neat ! .-Xnd that 
Hughic, he can make porridge and get his own 
supper, and fix the wet towels on his mother's 
head just as nice ! I only wish Johnny was as 
handy. But we 've got to do something for them, 
Joseph. If it was n't for Johnny's party we 've 
promised him, we might spare a few dollars." Mrs. 
Podge was quite out of breath with saying so much. 

"Johnny has just been at me to give over the 
party," said Mr. Podge, in his kindest voice. 

" Whatever in the world is that for? Why, he 
was a-writing his invitations as busy and happy as 
you could ask ! " 




" He has spent nearly all his party-money for 
those drawings, and he kind of hinted, would I 
put in the three dollars I promised, for Hugh's 
folks, instead," said Mr. Podge. 

" The dear little soul ! I do believe, sometimes, 
Joseph, that Johnny is growing a good boy," said 
Mrs. Podge, in a loud, happy whisper. 

" That was better than forty parties ! " Johnny 
thought ; but his father and mother never knew 
that he had heard it, and he lay like a little 'pos- 
sum, waiting for further praises. None being forth- 
coming, however, he thought it prudent to stretch 
himself and go through the motions of waking up. 

" Pa says you talk of giving up the party," said 
his mother, gently, when he arose from the lounge. 

"Yes, ma'am; I don't care much about it any 
more, and I thought you an' Pa would just as lief 
give the money to Hughie's folks. I believe I '11 
go up to bed now, Ma." 

His mother kissed his sleepy face, and his father 
touched Johnny's hair with his fingers, and said, 
" Good-night, my son ! " 

So Mrs. Podge, the next day, carried the three 
dollars to Mrs. McCollom, who was too ill to 
refuse it ; and Hughie bought, at his discretion, 
such things as they most needed, and the neighbor- 
women took turns sitting up o' nights with his 

Now, Johnny's school-fellow, with the remarka- 
ble name, had to be informed that the party was 
given up, and, to Johnny's satisfaction, he found 
that Harry had never said a word about it to any- 
body. But this young keeper of secrets was an 
inquisitive boy, and he wanted to know why the 
party had been given up. Johnny, however, 
utterly refused to tell, partly because he did n't 
want to brag, and partly for fear Hughie would 
find out about it. 

But Harry Holdclose was a boy with a very busy 
brain, and, suspecting that there was a disappoint- 
ment somewhere, it entered into his kind heart to 
devise a plan. This plan was neatly outlined at 
recess, and fully completed at noon. 

The day was Thursday, which, as we all know, 
is just two days before Saturday ; and before 
school was out that evening, all the boys and girls 
in Johnny's class, and some privileged ones in 
other classes, were in a buzz of excitement over the 
"s'prise party at Johnny Podge's, Saturday night, 
you know ! " 

All but Johnny. He was a little speck sulky, 
because there was so much whispering and laugh- 
ing, the nature of which he could n't guess. And 
it was the same all through Friday ; and at night, 
when the scholars trooped along in clusters and 
crowds, Johnny went moping silently home. Even 
Hughie seemed to have joined the rest, and Johnny 

felt deserted and forlorn, and his mother's heart 
ached for him when she thought of the pleasure 
he had given up. 

But by the next morning he had forgotten his 
vexation, and all the forenoon he was deep in a 
beautiful book his mother had given him. After 
dinner, he hurried with his Saturday errands, so as 
to have some fun with his sled before the snow 
should melt. It was a cloudless day, and the sun 
shone magnificently. 

"What lovely weather for the party!" Mrs. 
Podge thought, with a sigh ; and she wondered if 
Johnny was very much disappointed. 

Johnny had a good time with his sled that after- 
noon, and, toward sunset, Hughie joined him. 
Mrs. McCollom was better, and the kind woman 
who had come to spend that evening with her had 
urged Hughie to run out and take the air a little 
while. When dark set in, and Johnny went home 
to supper, unusually happy at heart, his mother 
ventured to say : 

"Well, Johnny, we 've had a pretty good time 
without the party, have n't we .'' " 

" 1 've had a gay time with my book, and 
Hughie, and everything, and 1 'm hungry as a 
bear," said Johnny. 

Papa Podge, if I may so allude to him, did n't 
come home until ten o'clock on Saturday nights, 
for he was a clerk in a little dry-goods store, which 
had a habit of sitting up late evenings on Satur- 
day, for customers ; so, when there came a tre- 
mendous knock at the front door, giving Mrs. 
Podge "such a dreadful start," there was no one 
to answer it but herself and Johnny, and, being 
the least bit timid, they both went, and carried 
the baby along, too. 

"My goodness! is it a fire?" exclaimed Mrs. 
Podge, as she opened the door and saw what 
seemed like a hundred people clustered in front 
of the house, all as still as mice. 

"S'prise!" said a boy who stood close to the 

This was Harry Holdclose. 

"S'prise! S'prise!" said the other boys and 
girls, a good many times over, as they tumbled 
laughingly into the house. 

Dear ! how merry that evening was I The little 
parlor overflowed into the dining-room, and that 
into the kitchen ; and it did seem as if every 
corner contained a boy, while the girls flitted 
about the rooms like fairies and chattered like 
parrots. Hughie was there, too, his face shining 
with joy, and his generous heart beating many 
strokes faster with pleasure at the honor shown 
his friend and patron. 

They played a good many games, all of a lively 
character, and were in the midst of the enchant- 




mcnts and vicissitudes of "Copenhagen" when the 
astonished Mr. I'odge arrived. Suddenly, Johnny 
heard the door open, and his father say: "What- 
ever, in all the world I " 

" It 's a surprise on Johnny ! " said Mrs. Podge, 
her face glowing with pride and pleasure. 

At the sound of his father's voice, Johnny 
sprang out, scattering a little crowd of girls, and 
cried : "Oh, Pa, I tliii have a party, after all ! " 

"Yes, I see you did. my son,*' said Mr. Podge, 
who seemed to feel that the occasion rct|uired a 
speech; "and 1 heartily thank all these young 
ladies and gentlemen for the honors they have 
heaped upon us all, 1 may s.iy. My young friends, 
you are very welcome to this house, and may you 
live long in joy and prosperity." 

It is true that Mr. Podge's words were almost 
drowned in the general merriment ; but nobody 
minded that ; on the contrar)-, they all rushed 
upon him without waiting for introductions, and 
dragged him into the game, wliich he enjoyed 
wonderfully. Then the girls got their packages 
of cake and cookies, and the boys their papers of 

candy, and nuts, and oranges ; and, ar. there 
was n't a table in the house large enough, nor a 
room that would begin to hold them all, they 
passed the refreshments around on plates and 
saucers, and sat and stood everywhere, eating and 
making merry. Such a jolly party Johnny never 
had seen. He had n't dreamed of anything half 
BO nice in his wildest moments, when he had beei> 
laying his own plans. 

As for Mrs. Podge, there never was so proud 
and happy a little woman. She felt sure it was 
the highest honor that had ever been paid to any 
member of her family, far or near, and she thought 
it was all owing to Johnny's goodness. " He must 
be a great favorite at school," she thought. 

Dear, innocent heart ! it was the wise boy who 
sat with Johnny who deserved the honor and the 
glory of that festive occasion. 

Johnny fully understood and appreciated this 
fact ; but he went to bed none the less happy for 
having been the subject of a " s'prisc," and more 
than satisfied with the way in which his birthday 
had been kept. 

(Jil, dear Papa!" three children cried, 
" You promised, don't you know ? 
That next when you should take a ride 

.Ml three of us should go." 
I Diu," that father said. " \''m knou- 

1 never speak at random. 
So get your roller-skates. We 

Off in a tearing tandem ! " 




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GIVING DAV): — "jingo! here comes THE PLATE, AND I 'VE LEFT 


By Danikl C. Beard. 

It was the 30th of May, and the waters of the 
great ocean rose and fell slowly, regularly, as if old 
Atlantic were gently slumbering. The sun had 
not yet appeared, but the rose color that tinged 
the mist along the eastern horizon betrayed his 
ambush. A slight haze rendered objects at a dis- 
tance somewhat indistinct, softening and almost 
obliterating the line where sky and ocean met. A 
breeze so gentle as scarcely to ripple the surface 
of the water fanned the cheeks of three boys 
standing in a small cat-boat, gazing eagerly ahead 
toward a low island. 

Had you seen the boys, you would at once have 
noted something familiar in their general appear- 
ance, and could scarcely have failed to recognize 
them as old acquaintances, for who does not know 
" Tom, Dick, and Harry" ? You would also soon 
have discovered that they were on a holiday. 
An examination of their " traps," or personal bag- 
gage, stowed forward, out of reach of salt water, 
would have shown Tom to be an amateur natural- 
ist, Dick a sportsman, and Harry an artist. 

"Well, what is it.' Sea-serpent, octopus, or 
wild goose ? " asked Dick, as Tom leveled a spy- 
glass at some distant object on the water. 

" A pair of great northern divers," answered 
Tom, " and you may as well put up your new, 
patent, double-back-action breech-loader, for you 
would have to load with expedited chain-lightning 
to hit one of them, even if we should get within 

"We'll see about that," growled Dick, as he 
pushed a couple of wire cartridges into his pet 
breech-loader. Harry, who had the tiller, headed 
the "Nomad," as their boat was named, straight 
for the birds. The breeze was light, and the 
boat glided through the smooth waters, leaving 
noiseless little ripples in her wake. 

As the "Nomad" neared them, the divers seemed 
not in the least afraid ; now and again one would 
disappear in the water, leaving only two rings upon 
the surface to tell where it had been. Tom timed 
them, and found that they sometimes remained 
under water nearly a minute and a half. 




While thus engaged, he was startled by two loud 
reports near his head, bang ! bang ! The two 
birds disappeared like magic, the same instant 
that two charges of shot splashed up the water on 
the very spot they had left. 

Tom laughed, as he turned to Dick with a 
" Did n't I tell you so ! " 

But the sportsman could not believe they had 
been too quick for him, and he insisted that one 
must certainly have been hit. However, the 
speedy re-appearance of the divers at a good safe 
distance, paddling playfully around, convinced him 
to the contrary. 

Meanwhile the breeze had died out, and the 
boys turned their eyes impatiently toward the dis- 
tant island. 

While Harry was regretting the time wasted in 
chasing " those loons," as he called them, he de- 
scried a man in a row-boat putting out from the 
island. " Now we are all right, boys," he ex- 
claimed, "for that 's Billy Whetmore, from the 
light-house, coming to take us ashore." 

Feeling relieved on this score, the boys turned 

'• We give it up. What are they ? " asked Harry. 

"Watch," answered Tom, pointing to one that 
had been sailing much nearer the boat than the 
others. The bird seemed to hesitate a moment in 
the air, then suddenly down it came with a mighty 
swoop from its dizzy height, striking the water 
astern of the " Nomad" with a great splash. After 
a few vigorous flaps with its wings, the bird rose 
again, with its prey glistening in its talons. 

"There's a fisherman for you, Dick!" cried 
Tom ; ' ' one who fishes without bait or line, and 
carries his fish-hooks on his toes. He is, in other 
words, the American osprey." 

" 'Nomad,' ahoy!" shouted some one close by, 
and the next instant the red, jolly face of the light- 
house keeper's son appeared over the side, as he 
scrambled from his dory aboard the " Nomad." 

Harry, grasping his hand, welcomed him with, 
" Well, old Robinson Crusoe, how 's your desert 
island?" And turning to his companions, he in- 
troduced " Mr. Whetmore, 'Billy' Whetmore, the 
best sailor and fisherman in these waters." 

" I reckon the island 's all there," said Billy, 


their attention to some large birds that sailed about "but if you '11 dish me up a sweep, I will have 

overhead. you all ashore in a jiffy, and you can see for your- 

" Eagles?" said Dick, inquiringly. selves." 

" Guess again," said Tom. In a comparatively short time the "Nomad" was 




riding at anchor in a rocky little cove, and the 
crew were all ashore upon the Desert Island. 

The boys felt just then more like investigating 
the light-house kitchen than the Desert. 

It was se\-en o'clock when they sat down to a 
steaming hot breakfast of blackfish, cakes, and 
coffee, and many an old dyspeptic epicure would 
give a year of his life for the ability to relish a 
meal as Tom, Dick, and Harry enjoyed that one. 

Breakfast over, the crew of the " Xomad " 
lounged on a bench upon a bluff in front of the 
light-house, while Billy Whetmore was rigging up 
fish-lines, hooks, bait, etc. 

Harry began to make a sketch of an osprey's- 
nest on one of the rocks below. 

This particular rock was a very peculiar one, its 
resemblance to an animal being so striking that it 
is named " Dog's-Head Rock." On the back of 
this stone dog the fish-hawk's home was built. 

So the sketch was dubbed " The castle 
on the rock." At the suggestion of 
Billy Whetmore, the calm waters rip- 
pling around the rock were, in the 
sketch, whipped up into a storm. "It 
makes it seem more natural, like," Bill 

The wild birds that filled the air with 
their screeches and cries were pointed 
out, classified, and named by our young 
naturalist, who further entertained his 
companions with an account of the fish- 
hawk or American osprey, telling how 
much more cleanly and noble a bird it 
is than its European relative, never 
touching anything but fish ; while, ac- 
cording to F'iguier, the European osprey 
frequently feeds upon wild fowl and 
carrion. He explained, also, how some 
of the older naturalists sanctioned an 
extravagant romance concerning the 
construction of this bird's feet, one of 
which was supposed to be webbed and 
formed like that of a duck, for swim- 
ming, while the other had the talons 
ag|^^ of an eagle, for grasping prey. 
'^'^^B Tom also told how a friend captured 

^ a young osprey just before it was ready 
to leave the nest, and with the aid of a 
companion attempted to carry it home, 
holding it by the ends of its out- 
stretched wings to avoid its sharp beak and talons. 
.Suddenly the bird flopped completely over, break- 
ing one wing badly at the second joint. Thinking 
that the wounded bird might recover best under 
the care of its parents, it was left at the foot of the 
nest tree, where the old ones could feed it. After 
an absence of some hours, the friends returned to 
see how the patient progressed, and were some- 
what surprised to find that the old birds had killed 
their crippled young, by striking their sharp beaks 
through its neck and throat. 

Once fairly started on his favorite topic, there 
was no telling when Tom's lecture would end, but 
a loud " Peow ! Pe-ow ! " from Bill Whetmore, on 
the beach, notified them that all was ready for the 
blackfishing expedition. 

The fishing-grounds lay between this island and 
the Long Island shore, a distance of some three- 
quarters of a mile, in a rocky, dangerous inlet, 
through which the tides rush so fiercely as to fleck 
the many jutting ledges with foam. 

Rigged out from top to toe in oil-skin " togs," 
the party were seated in a row-boat. Bill Whet- 
more took the oars and began to back out stern 
foremost among the half-submerged rocks, into 
the midst of a whirling, bubbling tide that ran with 




the velocity of rapids. The boys fairly held their 
breath as their little boat dashed, with the speed 
of an arrow, at first one and then another of the 
sharp edges, against which the rushing tide boiled 
and spun in a dangerous manner. Shooting rapids 
in a canoe was child's play to this. Just as the 
destruction of the boat and the consequent duck- 
ing of all hands seemed inevitable, a dexterous 
jerk of Bill's oar this way or that would send the 
boat in safety past the rock, only to make a hair- 
breadth escape from its next neighbor. 

Before they reached the fishing-ground the boys 
were, to use the mildest term, considerably excited, 
but Whetmore was as cool and collected as though 
paddling in the calm waters of the bay. The thor- 
ough knowledge of every little eddy and cross-cur- 
rent, the skill displayed in taking advantage of 
them and managing the boat, aroused the boys' 
highest admiration. They moved out in a zigzag 
course toward a point where two tides met, and 
where, although there was no wind, the meeting 
of the currents lashed the waters into tumbling 

Backing up to the edge of a whirlpool, one anchor 
was cast from the bow into the midst of the seeth- 
ing waters, the boat was quickly backed until the 
line was taut, then another anchor, cast from the 
stern, was made fast, and the boat was swinging 
easily and safely in smooth water, with the tide 
rushing wildly around ugly rocks a few feet to the 
right, and bubbling over a submerged reef a yard 
or so to the left. From this vantage ground the 
boys commenced hostilities against the blackfish ; 
" chumming " for them, Bill called it, meaning that 
chopped bait (lobster and clams) was strewn over 
the sides of the boat for some time, to attract the 
fish. After two hours' good sport, they started on 
the return trip towing sixty pounds of blackfish 

In the old dining-room of the light-house each 
boy paid his involuntary compliment to their host's 
dinner ; and their remarks on his skill as a boat- 
man made Bill blush through all his twenty years' 
tan and weather-stain. 

'■ 1 tell you that was a plucky row, and it required 
some nerve, too," said Dick. 

"Yes," added Tom, "when a man loves his 
profession, and gives it his whole mind and atten- 
tion, he can accomplish wonders." 

" Well," remarked Harry, grandly," if I had the 
knowledge of art that Bill has of boats, tides, 
winds, and weather, I 'd always be on the line at 
the academy." 

Dinner over, an exploring expedition through the 
island had its separate attractions for each of the 
boys, and they started, Dick with his breech-loader 
and game-bag, Tom with numerous boxes and bags 

for capturing and conveying specimens, and Harry 
with sketch-book and pencils. 

" I guess you had better keep away from that 
old hawk on the wood-pile," was Bill's parting 
remark, as the party left the light-house. 

Once away from the building, it seemed to the 
boys as though the whole island was alive with 
birds ; the sand bluff in front was fairly honey- 
combed by the hundreds of bank swallows that 
twittered and fluttered in clouds about their homes. 
Inland, the long sand-stretches were dotted with 
occasional trees, so dwarfed, twisted, knotted, and 
gnarled, by poverty of soil below, and severity of 
storms above, that each was more like an over- 
grown gooseberry bush than a legitimate tree. The 
ospreys had taken possession of every available spot 
to build their nests, and when they build it is no 
delicate moss and twig structure, fastened with 
horse-hair, and lined with soft feathers or wool, but 
a solid affair, one nest occupying a whole tree. It 
has a foundation of sticks, clubs, and pieces of tim- 
ber so large and heavy that it would seem an 
impossibility for any bird to move them. Piled 
up, sometimes to the height of five feet, is fully 
a cart-load of sponges, sea-weed, and debris- of 
all kinds, picked up along the beach ; on the top 
of this mass is the nest proper, hollowed out like a 
basin, lined with grasses and soft material. Many 
such massive nests as this were scattered over trees 
and rocks, and even on the bare ground. Tom 
called the boys' attention to this, saying that 
" according to the works on natural history that 
lie had seen, the American osprey, or fish-hawk, 
invariably built in the tops of the tallest trees. Baird 
gives as exceptional instances a nest found in a 
small pine in Maine and another upon a cliff on 
the Hudson River, and I believe Audubon found 
one or two on the ground." 

One of the first nests they approached was built 
on the top of a pile of wood, and from the wariike 
looks of the two old birds and the peculiar location 
of their nest, the boys concluded that this must be 
the old hawk Bill had warned them against molest- 
ing. So of this nest Harn- decided he must have 
a sketch, and seating himself comfortably at a 
short distance, he began to work, while the other 
boys sauntered on. The old birds looked on sus- 
piciously for some time ; at length one of them took 
wing and after soaring to a considerable height, he 
made a sudden dart down toward Harr)', with a 
shrill cry and a rushing noise that caused our 
startled amateur artist to drop everything and 
scamper off with very undignified rapidity. And 
it was some time before he dared steal back after 
his book and pencils. That sketch was never 

As Harry reluctantly left the wood-pile nest, the 




popping of Dick's gun along the beach told plainly 
enough that its owner was enjoying the day, in a 
way to suit his tastes. 

Off in the distance Tom was visible, standing 
motionless, gazing intently on the ground, while 
around and over his head circled and flew scores 
of swallow-like birds. As Harry approached the 
spot, he could see that the birds were much 
too large for swallows, and were peculiarly marked 
with white, giving the effect of an open space 
between the tip and main part of the wings. The 
air was full of them, and they darted by close to 
his ears with a whirring noise. 

Harry found Tom on his knees apparently 
searching for something in the sand. 

"I say, Tom, if you have lost )our senses, you 
will never find them again without a microscope," 
was Harr>'s salutation. 

" I think I must have lost one of my senses at 
least," responded Tom, " for I had my eye fixed 
upon the exact spot where a bird was sitting, but 


when the bird flew off, and I stooped to pick 
up the two eggs I knew must be there — presto, 
change, — and they were gone. You know, my boy, 
these night-hawks don't build nests, but deposit 
their eggs upon a flat rock, or on the ground. 
The eggs are small, and so closely do they resem- 
ble the ground or lichens in color and markings 
that it is next to impossible to find them." 

" 'T is, eh ? Well, that depends upon who it is 
that is hunting them," cried Harry, as he stooped 
and picked up something at his feet which he 
handed to his friend, with : " Here, friend nat- 
uralist. You sec, an artist must have a good eye 
to distinguish delicate shades of color." 

" Thanks, old fellow," and Tom, taking from his 
pocket a small blow-pipe, made a hole at each end 
of the eggs and blew out the contents; then plac- 

*See St. Nicholas for 

ing them carefully each in a separate box, he 
marked the boxes, " May 30th, 1881. Desert Isl- 
and, Chordeiles popeliie j location, open, sandy 

Here Harry, who had been watching Tom, 
spoke : 

" Cordelia Puppets, are they ? Well, that proves 
how ignorant we of the masses are. Now I 
always thought these birds were whip-poor-wills." 

" Not so awfully ignorant as you would make 
out," responded Tom; "although these are not 
wliip-poor-wills, but night-hawks, or bull bats, 
they all belong to the same family, the goat- 
suckers, or Caprimiilgidic. Hereafter you can 
inform inquiring friends that these night-hawks, 
although related, are an entirely different bird from 
the Anirosloinus or whip-poor-will." 

"Well, if you will but let up on those jaw- 
breaking words — 'scientific terms,' I should say — 
for just one moment, I was going to tell you that 
I found two of these ' Cordelia puppet ' night- 
hawks sitting on eggs upon the top of the man- 
sard roof of our house in Boston. " 

"That's worth recording," said Tom, taking 
out his note-book and jotting down the fact. 

Walking on together, the boys found many ob- 
jects of interest, and at Tom's request Harry made 
a sketch of one of the osprey-nests, to illustrate 
and prove the assertion that the American species 
will not molest other birds — for in the interstices 
on the sides of this nest were half a dozen or more 
homes of the crow blackbird, some containing eggs. 
On others the mother-bird was sitting, while 
still others contained young birds. These facts 
Harry discovered by clambering up the next tree. 
He even put his hand over the top of the main 
nest, exclaiming to his companion: "Three 
hawk's-cggs, Tom, and they are warm, too." 

" It will be warm for you in about a minute," 
shouted Tom, "for here come the old birds." 
Harry had had experience enough of that kind, 
so he let go all holds and dropped to the ground 
in a hurry; but he had made his sketch, to which 
he gave the title "Nature's Commune." 

The two friends now turned on the beach to 
hunt up Dick, whose gun had reported him at 
different points along the shore. 

Harry, who was some distance ahead, suddenly 
stopped, and called excitedly back to Tom to hurry 
up, for he had found a veritable sea-monster, that 
was all mouth, excepting his tail, and all tail but 
the mouth. He seemed quite disappointed that 
Tom should recognize it as a fish known as the 
angler, or " fishing frog."* Horrid-looking speci- 
mens they are, with huge mouths and fat tongues. 
Buckctfuls of fish have been taken from their ca- 
pacious stomachs. They are known to catch sea- 
March, 1874, page 256. 




gulls and wild fowl which are swimming on the 
surface of the water, and to swallow them whole. 
A loon was taken from the stomach of one capt- 
ured at Ogunquit, on the coast of Maine. 

After Harry had secured a sketch of this gor- 
mandizing angler, they continued their search for 
their sporting friend, and soon found him stretched 

First he drew a good-sized circle in the sand ; then, 
from a dozen or so of the little creatures which 
Dick had captured and placed in his hat, each of the 
boys chose one for himself. These they compared 
carefully, to prevent mistakes in identification. 
Dick selected a crab with the largest claw he 
could find. Harr)', following his example, picked 



at full length on the sand. He said he had been 
watching some little fiddler-crabs dig their holes, 
and that it was fun to see them swing their long- 
necked eyes around, to make sure the coast was 
clear, and then scamper off four or five feet from 
their homes, drop their little load of sand, once 
more stop to move their eyes around the circle, 
and scamper back to disappear in their holes for 
another load of sand. 

" But, I say, fellows," cried Dick, with a sudden 
burst of enthusiasm, " I have an idea " 

" Bottle it, Dick, as a specimen for Tom," inter- 
rupted Harr)- ; " ideas are great rarities nowadays." 

" Tom is not the only one who wants ideas, even 
if they are other people's," retorted Dick, "but 
you can both have this one. It 's this : Let 's have 
a crab-race." 

" The race of crabs is pretty well established 
already," interposed Tom. 

But they both entered eagerly into Dick's scheme. 

out a saucy big fellow, while Tom chose a small 
crab with two small claws. All three steeds were 
placed under a drinking-cup in the center of the 
ring drawn on the sand. 

"Now," explained Dick, " no one is allowed to 
touch his crab under any circumstances, until the 
race is decided. I shall lift the cup at the word, 
and the first crab to cross the line of the circle wins 
the race, and the last one out loses. Now, what 
stake shall we race for ? " 

It was finally agreed that as they would, in all 
probability, have to make an all-night sail to get 
home, the loser of the race should stand the first 
watch, and the winner the last watch. 

Tom gave the word : "Attention ! Are you ready ? 
Go ! " and the cup was lifted, freeing the little 
creatures. Tom's crab started off sideways, at a 
rapid gait, but Harry's and Dick's hesitated. At 
this the boys shouted, danced about, and waved 
their caps. But the pugnacious little steeds, in- 




stead of being frightened into running, disregarded 

the size of their enemies, and bravely reared up on 

their hind legs and showed fight. Tom laughed 

until he was faint, for, taking 

advantage of his knowledge, 

he had selected a timid female 

whose smaller pincers were 

of no use whatever in battle, 

and who consequently ran 

away from the other crabs as 

fast as her numerous little 

legs could carr\- Iier. 

At last, Dick's steed started 
off, but he stopped just inside 
the line to rear up at some 
imaginary foe. And then 
Harry's horse, finding him- 
self all alone, made a sudden 
dash out of the ring. 

Tom had won ; Harry was 
lucky ; and Dick had lost. 

was heartily enjoyed, and a few minutes later they 
were once more aboard the " Nomad," headed for 
home, with a fair breeze. 

•harry hai 

The race had hardly ended, when Billy Whet- 
more's " Pcow ! Pe-ow!" down the beach, start- 
led the boys into the knowledge that it was 
getting late, and that they were pretty hungr\-. 

After a brisk walk, their supper at the light-house 

Dick, at the 
tiller, said he 
had put in a 
pretty good 
day's fun, had 
a splendid lot 
of fish and a 
good mess of 
birds stowed 
forward on ice, 
and that he did 
n't mind it, if 
he did lose the 
race. Harry re- 
marked that, in 
addition to all 
his fun, he had 
about a dozen valuable sketches. Anil Tom, after 
counting over his specimens, concluded thiit he had 
n't missed much that day. In fact, they all joined in 
the belief that they had crowded about a week's fun 
into the twelve hours spent on the Desert Island. 

.bLt btA-MlJNSTER. 


E L B E R O N . [November, 


I. July. 

I WATCHED the little children by the sea, 
Tempting the wave with mimic forts of sand; 
Hillock and pit they modeled in their glee. 
Laughing to see them leveled on the strand. 
Deep was the music of the breakers' roar, 
And bright the spray they tossed upon the shore ; 
Fresh gales of joy blew landward, but in vain ; 
The Nation's heart was heavy with its pain. 

II. August. 

The little children skipping by the sea. 

Bare-legged and merry, challenge its advance. 

Holding the sunlight in their hair, they greet 

The prone wave's tumult while they shout and dance. 

But he who suffers far away grows faint 

With longing for the sea-side cheer and plaint; — 

Ah, bright the tide, and blue the bending sky, 

While stately ships, intent, go saihng by ! 

111. September. 

What power was this ? no tumult on the deep ! 
The conscious waves crept whispering to the sand ; 
The very children, awed and eager, shared 
The spell of silence holding sea and land : 
White wings of healing filled the summer sky, 
And prayerful thousands stood expectant by, 
While borne on bed of hope, — content and wan, — 
The Nation's Man came into Elberon. 

' 'T is well ! " the news sped gladly, day by day, — 
" Old Ocean sends its strengthening breeze apace ! " 
Grandly, beneath the shining cottage eaves. 
Our country's banner floated in its grace. 
When, suddenly, grim shadows gathered near 
To overwhelm us with a nameless fear ; 
Till all along Atlantic's sobbing sands — 
Far as it rims our own and other lands ; 
Across the world; what spot the sun shines on — 

Sounded the tidings dread : 

Our Man is dead ! 
The Nation's grief broods over Elberon. 






By Noah Brooks. 

No EVENT of modern times lias created so deep 
and wide-spread a sorrow throughout the civilized 
world as the death of James .Abram Garfield, late 
President of the L^nited States. When he was 
struck down by the bullet of a wicked man, every- 
bod)- was filled with ainazcment and alarm. There 
was no reason why such an attack on the President 
should be expected or looked for. He was a 
peaceable and kindly man, full of generous feel- 
ings, and with a friendly interest for all men. And 
when it was told to the country that this large- 
hearted, and upright, and honest Christian gentle- 
man had been shot, people could hardly believe 
the tale. An assault like that seemed utterly 

When it appeared to be possible that the Presi- 
dent might recover, there was much relief felt 
throughout the length and breadth of the land. 
Wherever there were people dwelling, whether in 
the crowded cities of the Atlantic sea-board, or in 
lonely hamlets and camps afar in Western wilds, 

men, women, and children waited and watched 
with great anxiety for the latest news from the 
wounded President. It was a remarkable sight, 
this, waiting of a great nation around the bedside 
of a smitten president. From lands beyond the 
sea, too, came many messages of affectionate 
inquiry. Kings and queens, great men and the 
common people of every land, hoped and prayed 
for the recovery of the President. The powerful 
rulers of Europe seemed to forget for a while their 
ambitious schemes, and they sent word to their 
representatives in this country that they desired the 
very latest news, day by day, from the White 
House, where Garfield lay betwixt life and death. 
For eleven weeks, it may be said, the whole civil- 
ized world watched for some sign of hope that the 
President might live and not die. 

This hope was not to be realized, although it did 
seem at times that the long suspense was over and 
that the beloved chief magistrate was on a fair road 
to health. At last, and suddenly, the news was 




flashed all abroad that Garfield was dead. Never 
before, probably, did ill news fly so fast and so 
far. Gradually, there had seemed to be less and 
less hope that the noble sufferer could live, and 
so people were partly prepared for the worst. 
The brave and gentle spirit of Garfield passed 
away at half-past ten in the evening, and before 
the clocks struck twelve at midnight, the bells 
were tolling in every city in the United States, say- 
ing to all the people that the long-suffering, much- 
enduring President lay dead by the margm of 
the great sea that he loved so well, and on whose 
shining waves his last dying glance had lingered. 

Everywhere, men went about with saddened 
faces and dejected mien. It seemed as if there 
was mourning and lamentation in every house in 
the land. As soon as people could rally from the 
first shock of grief, they began to hang out the 
emblems of sorrow on e\-ery hand. It was as if 
men and women, not being able to go and weep by 
the death-bed of the good President, did what they 
could to show their real sorrow for what was now 
beyond the help of man. From the first, as it 
now appears, there was no possibility that the 
President could ever really recover. But this was 
not known certainly until after his death, and so 
long as news came that he was still alive, the peo- 
ple prayed to the good God for his restoration to 
health. For weeks, millions of men and women 
in all lands, Christians of every sect, Israelites. 
Greeks, and those of strange faiths, daily offered 
up prayer to God that this precious life might be 
spared. So, when he died, they who had hoped 
and prayed for him were exceeding sorrowful, 
and they showed their sadness in many ways. 
The whole republic may be said to have been 
clothed in mourning. There was never such a 
sight in any country as on the day of the funeral 
of Garfield, when many of the larger cities- und 
towns of the United States were completely draped 
in the emblems of mourning, and every flag 
drooped at half-mast. From beyond the sea 
came sympathizing messages from the great 
ones of the earth and from friends of America 
in foreign parts. The good Queen of England 
sent loving and tender words for herself and her 
children, and directed the British envoy at Wash- 
ington to lay on Garfield's bier a memorial of her, 
with a kindly message which she sent. And then, 
with mourning and lamentation all over the broad 
land, the mortal remains of the President were 
carried back to Ohio, and were buried on a height 
from which one may look over the sparkling waters 
of the great Lake Erie. 

This man, whose tragic sickness and death were 
lamented as a personal grief by many millions, 
and at whose burial the noblest and the best of 

Christendom, here and in foreign lands, sincerely 
mourned, was, at the beginning of his public 
career, only a modest American citizen. He 
sei-ved his country with distinguished honor in the 
war and on the floor of Congress, and when he 
was elected President, many thousands of citizens 
rejoiced in the belief that his character and states- 
manship gave promise of an unusually wise and 
brilliant administration. But he had been in office 
only four months when he was shot ; he had not 
been long known to the people of other countries, 
and he had not had time, as president, to show how 
wise and how able he would be. Nor did he come 
of any lofty or ancient race of men, whose deeds 
of prowess or renown could be found carved on 
monuments and in noble temples. In his boyhood, 
he had been very poor, and had worked at humble 
calhngs for the sake of earning a livelihood, and 
securing a good education. Why, then, was there 
all this lamentation, sorrow, and spontaneous dis- 
play of grief abroad and at home ? 

The career of James A. Garfield was thoroughly 
American. His character was worthy of all imita- 
tion. In his poverty when a young boy, he 
might have gone to school for two years before 
the time when he did enter the school-house, 
but that he had no shoes to wear ; and this same 
needy lad, who afterward drove the horses of a 
canal-boat, lived to be the president of the 
L'nited States. He carried into his high office a 
manliness of character, a Christian courage, and 
a sincerity of purpose that are more to mankind 
than the highest honors that can be heaped upon 
our fellow-man. Every American boy has heard, 
at some time, that he may live to become the pres- 
ident of the United States. But the life of Gar- 
field, and the remarkable spectacle afforded by the 
last days of that life, very clearly show that it was 
the man, rather than the office, which men honored 
when the tragical end of his career drew to a close. 
The death of a president of the republic, and es- 
pecially a death so purposeless and cruel, would 
have excited the sympathy of the world. But the 
history of Garfield's life is a beautiful example of 
what may be achieved by a loving heart, a gener- 
ous nature, and a high purpose. In that life the 
boys of America have a noble model, and one 
which they may safely follow. Better than being 
president is to be honest, brave, true, manly, 
tender to one's mother, courageous for the right, 
and a friend to the weak and those who have no 
helper. All this, Garfield was, and this is why, 
when he fell a victim to the shot of an assassin, 
and when he was borne to his last resting-place, a 
wave of sorrow swept around the globe. 

We are nowhere told that Garfield had aimed at 
being president before he was nominated to that 




high place. There is no evidence that he had made 
any plans for his elevation to the great office that 
he occupied when he died. But the reward of a life 
of honest endeavor in the path of the right came 
to him unexpectedly and without his seeking for it. 
And I dare say that, if he had never been chosen 
president, he would have reaped full reward in 
some other way. For him, at least, it was better to 
be right than to be president. And while to possess 
by the vote of the people the highest office of the 
Republic is an honorable ambition, the example of 
Garfield shows that it is far better to win a good 
name and to build up a character that shall stand 
when all other things perish. We do not now so 
much lament a dead president as the tragical tak- 
ing away of a high-minded man, an affectionate 
father, son, and husband, and a sincere patriot. 

Nevertheless, the nation has suffered a calamity 
in the death of Garfield. He had the qualities 
which would have made him a good president. 
If his life had been spared, it seems most likely 
that the countr>' would have highly approved of 
his administration of its aflfairs. Then, too, it is a 
sad thing that any man should be called to die for 
his country as Garfield was. He was not killed for 
himself, but because he was the president. If he 
had never been chosen by the people to the place 
he filled, he would have been alive to-day, as far 
as we can know. So there is a feeling of indigna- 
tion and anger under all the mourning and sorrow- 
for Garfield. The nation h;is been hurt as well as 
the family. It is a matter for profound sorrow that 
the life of a man is put in jeopardy because he has 
been chosen president by a free people. It is our 
boast that, in this country, every man has a chance 
for himself, and nobody is kept down by circum- 
stances which are peculiar to any class, or sect, or 
social condition. Garfield was a shining example 
of what may be achieved by well-directed labor, 
and we are grcatl)- grieved that his life, so 
admirably calculated to illustrate the force of 
character and the width of the ways to distinction 
in which an American boy may walk, should end 
in a manner so undeserved and so untimely. 

When a boy, Garfield was lively, quick, and 
restless. His teacher complained that the lad 
was "perpetual motion." He could not study, even 
when great sacrifices had been made by his 
mother and his brothers to get him ready for 
school. When this was reported to his mother, 
her heart sank, but she could only say, " Why, 
James!" The tone of sorrow and disappointment 
went to the boy's heart, and he fell on his knees, 
and, bur\'ing his face in her lap, cried out that he 
would keep still in school, and that he would learn. 
He kept his word. From that day, he stuck 

manfully to his work, and, whether he was riding 
on the canal tow-path, hammering away at car- 
pentering, plunging into book-keeping, or toiling 
in the hard position of school-teacher, he seemed 
to be forever pushed on by the thought that he 
had promised to do his best. It was evident that 
he believed that the best preparation for the duties 
and responsibilities of to-morrow is the faithful 
performance of the labors of to-day. No idle 
dreamer, he went right on with his work, whatever 
it might be, doing his best. He waited for no 
applause, and he was not stimulated in his labors 
by the hope of reward. With a clear conscience, 
a ready hand for those who needed help, a large 
heart throbbing for the poor and the distressed, 
and with a sincere belief in the goodness of God's 
government of the world, Garfield filled up his 
days with honest industry and faithful service to 
his country and to his lime. 

Does any boy ask what good can come of all 
this, now that the man has died, and has been cut 
off, too, before he had arrived at the end of the 
natural term of human life ? Garfield has, indeed, 
lived in vain if we can not find in his life and char- 
acter something worthy of imitation. He has 
lived in vain if the influence of his example is not 
felt, for generations, upon the forming characters 
of the lads who are to be the future rulers and law- 
makers of this republic. The President is dead, 
but the record of his life can not die. And when 
we think of the pathetic, figure that he made when 
he went out of this life, and of the untimely end of 
his career, which seemed to be just about to be at 
its best, we can recall with comfort the truth that 

"In the wreck of noble lives 

Something immortal still survives." 

Nor need we lament for him who has gone up 
higher. Even those who were so near and dear to 
this warm-hearted and loving man in his life- 
time do not mourn with a sorrow that can not be 
comforted. If it is true that, in future ages, 
the American youth shall be taught the goodly les- 
son of the lives of great men who have gone 
before, it is true that such an example as Garfield's 
can not perish. And if this is true of the life that 
endures upon the face of the earth, as men come 
and go, we can with our thought follow into shining 
realms the admirable and lovable man just now 
gone from among us. What he did lives after him. 
And although when he went away the land was 
filled with lamentation and weeping, 

" He passed through glory's morning gate, 
And w-alked in paradise." 





Thanksgiving for his House. — Bv Robert Herrick.* 

Lord, thou hast given me a cell, 

Wherein to dwell, 
A little house, whose humble roof 

Is weather proof; 
Under the sparres^ of which I lie 

Both soft and drie. 
Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep 

Me, while 1 sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate. 

Both void of state ; 
And yet the threshold of my doore 

Is worne by th' poore, 
Who thither come, and freely get 

Good words, or meat. 
Like as my parlour, so my hall 

And kitchin 's small : 
A little butterie,- and therein 

A little byn, 3 
Which keeps my little loafe of bread, 

Unchipt,'' unflead ; ' 
Some brittle sticks of thorne or briar 

Make me a fire. 
Close by whose living coale I sit, 

And glow like it. 

Lord, I confesse too, when I dine. 

The pulse ^ is thine. 
And all those other bits, that bee 

There placed by Thee ; 
The worts,' the purslain,'* and the messe 

Of water cresse 
Which of thy kindnesse thou hast sent; 

And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet^ 

To be more sweet. 
'T is Thou that crownest my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirthe. 
And givest me wassaile '" bowls to drink, 

Spic'd to the brink. 
Lord, 't is thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles'i my land. 
And giv'st me for my bushell sownc. 

Twice ten for one; 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day ; 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 

Me twins each yeare ; 
The while the conduits of my kine'- 

Run creame for wine : 

All these, and better thou dost send 

Me, to this end. 
That 1 should render, for my part, 

A thankfuU heart; 
Which, fir'd with incense, I resigne 

As wholly Thine; 
But the acceptance, that must be, 

O Lord, by Thee. 

We have room in our Treasure -box this month only for the quaint, old-fashioned Thanksgiving hj-mn given 
above. You would not be interested to read the wo'rks of Robert Herrick, excepting the few dainty songs 
which you will find in almost every book of selected poems; but his "Thanksgiving for his House " is so simple 
and earnest in its thoughts and so humble in spirit, that it is well worth your reading at this .Thanksgiving season of 
the year. As the many words in this poem that have gone out of use since it was written might puzzle you, 
the following note will explain them. The meaning of the whole poem is plain enough, as you will see. 

1- "Sparres," spars, — beams or rafters. 2. "Butterie," buttery, — a small room in which provisions are kept. 3. "Byn. ' hn, — 
a box, or an inclosed place. 4. "Unchipt," — whole, no part being cut away or broken off. 5. " Unflead," «'//?fyf^, — not peeleti, no 
crust stripped off. 6. "Pulse," — beans, pease, etc. 7. "Worts," — vegetables, or herbs. S. ^'Vuishiin," purslane, — a pot-herb, sometimes 
used for salads, garnishing, or pickling. 9. "Beet," — the vegetable, 10. "Wassaile," luassatt, — a spiced liquor formerly drunk on 
festive occasions. 11. " Soiles," soils, — enriches. 12. " Kine," cows. 

* Bom in London, August 20, 1591. Died, October, 1674. 





Bv Harry M. Kieffer. 

The writer of " Rccolleclions of a Drummer-liny" wishes to say to the reader'; of St. Nicholas that he is writing 
no made-up story or fictitious narrative, but is drawing upon his own personal experiences for all he has to say. 
He was a I)rummer-Boy in the " .\rniy of the Potomac," having been mustered into the service in midsummer, 
1862, and mustered out with what remained of his regiment at the close of the war, in 1865. Opposite to him, on 
the wall of his library, in which he is writing, hangs his " Discharge," framed in stout hickory, while before him 
on his table are three little black books, all stained and soiled with exposure to wind and weather on many a long 
march, — journals or diaries kept by him in camp and field, — together with a bundle of old army letters w'ritlen to 
the folks at home. Would the readers of St. Nicholas like to take an occasional peep into the contents of those 
three little black books and this bundle of old letters ? Would they like to know something of the actual life of a 
Drummer-Boy in the Army ? 

Chapter 1. 


When*, in 1861, the war-fever broke out in the 
school 1 was attending, and one after another the 
desks were left vacant where the older boys had 
sat, and there were few scholars left but the girls 
and the smaller boys, who were too young to think 
of following the envied example of their older 
fellows, you can scarcely imagine how very dull 
our life became. We had no interest in study, were 
restive and listless, and gave our good teacher a 
world of trouble. The wars of Cassar and the siege 
of Troy, — what were they when compared with the 
great war actually now being waged in our own 
land ? The nodding plumes of Hector and the 
armor of Homer's heroes were not half so inter- 
esting or magnificent as the brave uniforms of the 
soldiers we saw occasionally on our streets. And 
when, one day, one of our own school-fellows was 
brought home, wounded by a ball through his 
shoulder, our excitement knew no bounds ! And 
so, here is a letter I wrote to my father ; 

Dear Papa : I write to ask whether I may have 
your permission to enlist. I find the school is fast 
breaking up. Most of the boys are gone. I can't 
study any more. Jt^«/ you let me go? " 

Poor Father ! In the anguish of his heart it 
must have been that he sat down and wrote, " You 

may go ! 

Without the loss of a moment I was 

off to the recruiting-office, showed my father's 
letter, and asked to be sworn in ; but alas ! 1 was 
only sixteen, and lacked two years of being old 
enough, and they would not take me unless I could 
swear I was eighteen, which I could not do, — no, 
not even to gain this ardently desired object ! 

So then, back again to the school, to Virgil and 
Homer, and that poor little old siege of Troy, for 
a few weeks more ; until the very school-master 
himself was taken down with the war-fever, and 
began to raise a company, and the school had to 
look for a new- teacher, and they said I could enlist as 

" Copyright, 1881, by Harry M, 

drummer-boy, no matter how young I might be, if 
only that 1 had my father's consent ! And this, most 
unfortunately, had been revoked meanwhile, for 
there had come a letter, saying : " My dear boy : 
If you have not yet enlisted, do not do so: for I 
think you are quite too young and delicate, and I 
gave my permission perhaps too hastily and without 
due consideration." But alas ! dear Father, it was 
too late then, for I had set my very heart on going; 
the company was nearly full, and would leave in a 
few days, and everybody in the village knew that 
Marry was going for a drummer-boy. 

There was an immense crowd of people at the 
depot that midsummer morning nearly twenty 
years ago, when our coinpany started off to the 
war. It seemed as if the whole county had sus- 
pended work and voted itself a holiday, for a 
continuous stream of people, old and young, 

poured out of the little \illage of L , and made 

its way through the bridge across the river, and 
over the dusty road beyond, to the station where 
we were to take the train. 

The thirteen of us who had come dow^n from the 

village of M to join the larger body of the 

company at L , had enjoyed something of a 

triumphal progress on the way. We had a brass 
band to start with, besides no inconsiderable escort 
of vehicles and mounted horsemen, the number 
of which was steadily sw'cUed to quite a procession 
as we advanced. The band played, and the flags 
waved, and the boys cheered, and the people at 
work in the fields cheered back, and the young 
farmers rode down the lanes on their horses, or 
brought their sw-ecthearts in their carriages and 
fell in line with the dusty procession. Even the 
old gate-keeper, who could not leave his post, got 
much excited as we passed, gave " three cheers for 
the Union forever," and stood waving his hat after 
us till we were hid from sight behind the hills. 

Reaching L about nine in the morning, we 

found the village all ablaze with bunting, and so 
wrought up with the excitement that all thought 

Kieffer. All rights reserved. 




of work had evidently been given up for that day. 
As we formed in line and marched down the main 
street toward the river, the sidewalks were evcr\- 



where crowded with people — with boys who wore 
red-white-and-blue neck-ties, and boys who wore 
fatigue-caps, with girls who carried flags, and girls 
who carried flowers, with women who waved their 
kerchiefs, and old men who waved their walking- 
sticks, while here and there, as we passed along, 
at windows and door-ways, were faces red with long 
weeping, for Johnny was ofi" to the war, and may be 
mother and sisters and sweetheart would never, 
never see him again. 

Drawn up in line before the station, we awaited 
the train. There was scarcely a man, woman, or 
child in that great crowd around us but had 
to press up for a last shake of the hand, a last 
good-bye, and a last " God bless you, boys! " And 
-30, amid cheering and hand-shaking, and flag- 

waving, and band-playing, the train at last came 
thundering in, and we were off, with the "Star- 
Spangled Banner " sounding fainter and farther 
away, until it was drowned and lost 
to the ear in the noise of the swiftly 
rushing train. 

For myself, however, the last 
good-bye had not yet been said, 
for I had been away from home at 
school, and was to lea\-e the train 
at a way station, some miles down 
the road, and walk out to my home 
in the country, and say good-bye 
to the folks at home, — and that was 
the hardest part of it all, for good- 
bye then might be good-bye forever. 
If anybody at home had been 
looking out of door or window that 
hot August afternoon, more than 
nineteen years ago, he would have 
seen, coming down the dusty road, 
a slender lad, with a bundle ilung 
over his shoulder, and — but nobody 
■zi'as looking down the road — no- 
body was in sight. Even RoUo, the 
dog, my old play-fellow, was asleep 
somewhere in the shade, and all 
was sultr)-, hot, and still. Leaping 
lightly over the fence, by the spring 
at the foot of the hill, I took a cool 
draught of water, and looked up at 
the great red farm-house above, 
with a throbbing heart, for that was 
Home, and many a sad good-bye 
had there to be said, and said again, 
— - before I could get off to the war ! 

Long years have passed since 
then, but never have I forgotten 
how pale the faces of Mother and 
sisters became when, entering the 
room where they were at work, and 
throwing off my bundle, in reply to their ques- 
tion, ^''IV/iy, Harry ' where did yon come from ?'' 
I answered, " I come from school, and 1 'm off for 
the war ! " You may well believe there was an 
exciting time of it in the dining-room of that old 
red farm-house then. In the midst of the excite- 
ment. Father came in from the field, and greeted 
me with, " Why, my boy, where did you come 
from ? " to which there was but the one answer, 
"Come from school, and off for the war!" 

" Nonsense ; I can't let you go i I thought you 
had gi\'en up all idea of that. What would they 
do with a mere boy like you ? Why, you 'd be only 
a bill of expense to the Government. Dreadful 
thing to make me all this trouble ! " 

But I began to reason full stoutly with poor 





Father. 1 reminded him, first of all, that I would 
not go without his consent ; tliat in two years, and 
perhaps in less, I might be drafted and sent amongst 
men unknown to me, while here was a company 
commanded b)- my own school-teacher, and com- 
posed of acquaintances who would look after me ; 
that I was unfit for study or work while this fever 
was on me, and so on, till I saw his resolution 
begin to give way, as he lit his pipe and walked 
down to the spring to think the matter over. 

" If Harry is to go, Father," Mother says, 
"had n't I better run up to the store and get some 
woolens, and wc 'II make the boy an outfit of 
shirts yet to-night ? " 

" Well, — yes ; I guess you had better do so." 

But when he sees Mother stepping past the gate 
on her way, he halts her with — 

" Stop ! That boy can't go ! I caiCt give him 

And shortly after, he tells her that she "had bet- 


ter be after getting that woolen stuff for shirts," 
and again he stops her at the gate with — 

" Dreadful boy ! Why uiill he make mc all 
this trouble ? I can not let my boy go ! " 

But at last, and somehow. Mother gets off. Tlie 

^'OL. IX.— 5. 

sewing-machine is going most of the night, and 
my thoughts are as busy as it is, until far into the 
morning, with all that is before 3ne that 1 have 
never seen — and all that is behind mc that I may 
never see again. 

Let mc pass over the trying good-bye the next 
morning, for Joe is ready with the carriage to 
take Father and me to the station, and we are 
soon on the cars, steaming away toward the great 
camp, whither the company already has gone. 

"See, Harry, there is your camp." And look- 
ing out of the car-window, across the river, I 
catch, through the tall tree-tops, as we rush 
along, glimpses of my first camp, — acres and 
acres of canvas, stretching away into the dim 
and dusty distance, occupied, as I shall soon 
find, by some ten or twenty thousand soldiers, 
coming and going continually, marching and 
counter-marching until they have ground the soil 
into the driest and deepest dust I ever saw. 

I shall never forget my first 
impressions of camp-life as 
Father and I passed the sentry 
at the gate. They were any- 
thing but pleasant, and I could 
not but agree with the remark 
of my father, that "the life 
of a soldier must be a hard 
life, indeed." For, as wc en- 
tered that great camp, I looked 
into an A tent, the front flap 
of which was thrown back, 
and saw enough to make me 
sick of the housekeeping of a 
soldier. There was nothing 
in that tent but dirt and dis- 
order, pans and kettles, tin 
Lups and cracker boxes, forks 
Hid bayonet scabbards, greasy 
TK'tHl pork and broken hard-tack in 
W ..jmU' utter confusion, and over all 

and everywhere that insuffer- 
' ' lust. Afterward, when we got into the field, 
our camps in summer-time were models of cleanli- 
ness, and in winter models of comfort, as far at 
least as ax and broom could make them so, but 
this, the first cai^p I ever saw, was so abominable, 
that I have often wondered it did not fri;:;htcn tlie 
fever out of me. 

But, once among the men of thi company, all 
this was soon forgotten. Wc had supper — hard- 
tack and soft bread, boiled pork, and strong coffee 
(in tin cups), fare that Father thought "one could 
live on right well, I guess," and then the boys came 
around and begged Father to let me go; "they 
would take care of Harry; never you fear for that," 
and so helped on my cause that that night, about 




eleven o'clock, when we were in the railroad sta- 
tion together, on the way home. Father said : 

" Now, Harry, my boy, you are not enlisted yet ; 
I am going home on this train ; you can go home 
with me now, or go with the boys. Which will 
you do ? " 

To which the answer came quickly enough ; too 
quickly and too eagerly, 1 have often since thought, 
for a father's heart to bear it well : 

" Papa, I '11 go with the boys ! " 

" Well, then, good-bye, my boy ! and may God 
bless you and bring you safely back to me again ! " 

The whistle blew "off brakes," the car door 
closed on Father, and I did not see him again for 
three long, long years ! 

Often and often as I have thought over these 
things since, I have never been able to come to any 
other conclusion than this: that it was the "war 
fever " that carried me off, and that made poor 
Father let me go. For that "war fever" was a 
terrible malady in those days. Once you were 
taken with it, you had a vei-y fire in the bones 
until your name was down on the enlistment-roll. 
There was Andy, for example, aftenvard my mess- 
mate. He was on his way to school the very 
morning the company was leaving the village, 
with no idea of going along, but seeing this, that, 
and the other acquaintance in line, what did he 
do but run across the street to an undertaker's 
shop, cram his school-books through the broken 
window, take his place in line, and march off witli 
the boys without so much as saying good-bye to 
the folks at home ! And he did not see his Cassar 
and Greek grammar again for three years. 

I should like to tell something about the life we 
led in that camp ; how we ate and slept and drilled, 
but as much more interesting matters await us, we 
must pass over our life here very briefly. I open 
the first of my three little black books, and read : 

"Sept. 3d. — Received part of our uniforms, and 
I got a new drum. Had a trial at double-quick 
this evening till we were all out of breath, after 
which thirty-five of our men were detailed as camp 
guard for the first time. They stand guard two 
hours out of every six. 

"Sept. jd. — Slept soundly last night on the 
ground, although the cold was sei-ere. Have pur- 
chased an India rubber blanket — ' gum' blanket, 
we called it, to keep off the dampness. To-day, 
were mustered into service. We were all drawn 
up in line. Every man raised his right hand, 
while an officer recited the oath. It took only a 
few minutes, but when it was over one of the boys 
exclaimed : ' Now, fellows, I 'd like to see any 
man go home if he dare. We belong to L^ncle 
Sam, now. ' " 

Of the one thousand men drawn up in line there 

that day, some lived to come back three years 
later and be drawn up in line again, almost on that 
identical spot, and how many do you think there 
were ? No more than one hundred and fiftv. 

Ch.\pter II. 




After two weeks in that miserable camp at the 
State capital, we were ordered to \\'ashington, and 
into Washington, accordingly, one sultrj- Septem- 
ber morning, we marched, after a day and a night 
in the cars on the way thither. Quite proud we 
felt, you may be sure, as we tramped up Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue, with our new silk flags flying, the 
fifes playing "Dixie," and we ten little drummer- 
boys pounding away, awkwardly enough, no doubt, 
under the lead of a white-haired old man, who had 
beaten /lis drum nearly fifty years before under 
Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo, ^\'e were 




green, raw troops, as anybody could tell at a glance ; 
for we were fair-faced yet, and carried enormous 
icnapsacks. I remember passing some old troops 
somewhere near Fourteenth street, and being pain- 
fully conscious of the diflerence between them and 
us. They, 1 obser\'ed, had no knapsacks ; a gum 
blanket, twisted into a roll and slung carelessly over 
the shoulder, was all the luggage they carried. 
Dark, swarthy, sinewy men they were, with torn 
shoes and faded uniforms, but with an air of self- 
possession and endurance that came only of experi- 
ence and hardship. They smiled on us as we 
passed by, — a grim smile of half pity and half con- 
tempt — just as we in our turn learned to smile on 
other new troops a year or two later. 

By some unpardonable mistake, instead of get- 
ting into camp forthwith on the outskirts of the 
city, whither we had been ordered for duty at the 
present, we were marched far out into the country 
under a merciless sun, that soon scorched all the 
endurance out of me. It was dusty, it was hot, 
there was no water, my knapsack weighed a ton. 
So that when, after marching some seven miles, 
our orders were countermanded, and we were 
ordered back to the city again, 1 thought it impos- 
sible I ever should reach it. My feet moved 
mechanically, everything along the road was in a 
misty whirl, and when at night-fall Andy helped me 
into the barracks near the Capitol from wliich we 
had started in the morning, I threw myself, or 
rather, perhaps, fell, on the hard floor, and was 
soon so soundly asleep that Andy could not rouse 
me for my cup of coffee and ration of bread. 

I have an indistinct recollection of being taken 
away next morning in an ambulance to some hos- 
pital, and being put into a clean white cot. After 
which, for days, all consciousness left me, and all 
was blank before me, save only that in misty inter- 
vals I saw the kind faces and heard the subdued 
voices of Sisters of Mercy ; voices that spoke to mc 
from far away, and hands that reached out to me 
from the other side of an impassable gulf. 

Nursed by their tender care back to returning 
strength, no sooner was I able to stand on my feet 
once more than, against their solemn protest, 1 asked 
for my knapsack and drum, and insisted on setting 
out forthwith in quest of my regiment, which I 
found had meanwhile been scattered by companies 
about the city, my own company and another hav- 
ing been assigned to duty at " Soldiers' Home," 
the President's summer residence. Although it was 
but a distance of three miles or thereabouts, and 
although 1 started out in search of " Soldiers' 
Home" at noon, so conflicting were the directions 
given me by the various persons of whom 1 asked 
the road, that it was night-fall before I reached it. 
Coming then at the hour of dusk to a gate-way 

leading apparently into some park or pleasure- 
ground, and being informed by the porter at the 
gate that this was " Soldiers' Home," 1 walked 
about among the trees in the growing darkness, in 
search of the camp of Company D, when, just as 
I had crossed a fence, a challenge rang out : 

" Halt ! Who goes there ? " 

"A friend." 

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign! " 

" Hello, Ellis," said 1, peering through the 
bushes, "is that you?" 

" That is n't the countersign, friend. You 'd 
better give the countersign, or you 're a dead 
man ! " 

Saying which, lillis sprang back in true Zouave 
style, with his bayonet fixed and ready for a lunge 
at me. 

"Now, Ellis," said I, "you know me just as 
well as I know myself, and you know I have n't the 
countersign, and if you 're going to kill me, why, 
don't stand there crouching like a cat ready to 
spring on a mouse, but up and at it like a man. 
Don't keep me here in such dreadful suspense." 

" Well, friend without the countersign, I '11 call 
up the corporal, and he may kill you — you 're a 
dead man, any way." Then ho sang out: 

" Corporal of the (luard, post number three ! " 

From post to post it rang along the line, now 
shrill and high, now deep and low : " Corporal of 
the Guard, post number three ! " " Corporal of 
the Guard, post number three ! " 

Upon which up comes the corporal of the 
guard on a full trot, with his gun at a right-shoul- 
der-shift, and saying : 

"Well, what 'sup?" 

" Man trj-ing to break my guard." 

"Where is he?" 

" Why, there, beside that bush." 

"Come along, you there; you '11 be shot for a 
spy to-morrow' morning at nine o'clock." 

" All right, Mr. Corporal, I 'm ready." 

Now, all this was fine sport ; for the corporal 
and Ellis were both of my company, and knew 
me quite as well as 1 knew them, but they were 
bent on having a little fun at my expense, and the 
corporal had marched me off some distance 
toward head-quarters beyond the ravine, when 
again the call rang along the line ; 

" Corporal of the Guard, post number three ! " 

" Corporal of the Guard, post number three! " 

Back the corporal trotted me to Kllis. 

" Well, what in the mischief 's up now?" 

"Another fellow trying to break my guard. 

" Well, where is he ? Trot him out ; we '11 have 
a grand execution in the morning. The more the 
merrier, you know, and ' long live the Union ! ' " 




"I 'm sorry, Corporal, but the fact is I killed 
this chap myself. I caught him trying to climb 
over the gate there, and he would n't stop nor give 
the countersign, and so I up and at him, and ran 
my bayonet through him, and there he is ! " 

And sure enough, there he was, — a big fat 
'possum ! 

"All right, Ellis; you 're a brave soldier. 1 '11 
speak to the colonel about this, and you shall ha\'e 
two stripes on your sleeve one of these days." 

And so, with the 'possum by the tail and me by 
the shoulder, he marched us olT to head-quarters, 
where, the 'possum being thrown down on the 
ground, and I handed over to the tender mercies 
of the captain, it was ordered that : 

"This young man should be taken down to 
Andy's tent, and a supper cooked, and a bed made 
for him there ; and that henceforth and hereafter, 
he should beat reveille at daybreak, retreat at 
sundown, tattoo at nine P. M., and lights out a 
half-hour later." 

Nothing, however, was said about the execution 
of spies in the morning, although it was duly or- 
dained that the 'possum, poor thing, should be 
roasted on the morrow. 

Never was there a more pleasant camp than ours, 
there on that green hill-side across the ravine from 
the President's summer residence. We had light 
guard duty to do, but that of a kind we esteemed a 
most high honor, for it was no less than that of 
being special guards for President Lincoln. But the 
good President, we were told, although he loved 
his soldiers as his own children, did not like being 
guarded. Often did I see him enter his carriage 
before the hour appointed for his morning depart- 
ure for the White House, and drive away in haste, 
as if to escape from the irksome escort of a dozen 
cavalry-men, whose duty it was to guard his car- 
riage between our camp and the city. Then 
when the escort rode up to the door, some ten or 
fifteen minutes later, and found that the carriage 
had already gone, was n't there a clattering of hoofs 
and a rattling of scabbards as they dashed out past 
the gate and down the road to overtake the great 
and good President, in whose heart was ' ' charity 
for all, and mahce toward none." 

Boy as I was, I could not but notice how pale 
and haggard the President looked as he entered 
his carriage in the morning, or stepped down from 
it in the evening after a weary day's work in the 
city ; and no wonder, either, for those September 
days of 1862 were the dark, perhaps the darkest, 
days of the war. Many a mark of favor and kind- 
ness did we receive from the President's family. 
Delicacies, such as we were strangers to then, and 
would be for a long time to come, found their way 
from Mrs. Lincoln's hand to our camp on the 

green hill-side ; while little Tad, the President's 
son, was a great favorite with the boys, fond of the 
camp, and deUghted with the drill. 

One night, when all but the guards on their 
posts were wrapped in great-coats and sound 
asleep in the tents, I felt some one shake me 
roughly by the shoulder, and call : 

" Harry ! Harry ! Get up quick and beat the 
long roll ; we 're going to be attacked. Quick, 
now ! " 

Groping about in the dark for my drum and 
sticks, I stepped out into the company street, and 
beat the loud alarm, which, waking the echoes, 
brought the boys out of their tents in double-quick 
time, and set the whole camp in an uproar. 

" What 's up, fellows ? " 

" Fall in. Company D ! " shouted the orderly. 

"Fall in, men," shouted the captain, "we're 
going to be attacked at once ! " 

Amid the confusion of so sudden a summons at 
midnight, there was some lively scrambling for 
guns, bayonets, cartridge-boxes, and clothes. 

" I say. Bill, you 've got my coat on ! " 

" Where 's my cap ? " 

" Andy, you scamp, you 've got my shoes ! " 

"Fall in, men, quick; no time to look after 
shoes now. Take your arms and fall in." 

And so, some shoeless, others hatless, and all 
only half dressed, we form in line and are marched 
out and down the road at double-quick for a mile ; 
then halt ; pickets are thrown out ; an advance of 
the whole line through the woods, among tangled 
bushes and briers, and through marshes, until, as 
the first early streaks of dawn are shooting up in 
the eastern sky, orders are countermanded, and 

we march back to camp, to find that the whole 

thing was a ruse, planned by some of the offi- 
cers for the purpose of testing our readiness for 
work at any hour. After that, we slept with our 
shoes on. 

But poor old Jerry Black, — a man who should 
never have enlisted, for he was as afraid of a gun 
as Robinson Crusoe's man Friday,-^poor old Jerry 
was the butt for many a joke the next day. For, 
amid the night's confusion, and in the immediate 
prospect, as he supposed, of a deadly encounter 
with the enemy, so alarmed did he become that 
he at once fell to praying ! Out of considera- 
tion for his years and piety, the captain had per- 
mitted him to remain behind as a guard for the 
camp in our absence, in which capacity he did 
excellent service, excellent service ! But oh, when 
we sat about our fires the next morning, frying our 
steaks and cooking our coffee, poor Jerry was the 
butt of all the fun, and was cruelly described by 
the wag of the company as " the man that had a 
brave heart, but a most cowardly pair of legs ! " 




Chaptkr in. 


" Well, fellows, I tell you what ! I 've heard 
a good deal about the balmy breezes and sunny 
skies of Old Virginny, but if this is a specimen of 
the sort of weather they have in these parts, I, for 
one, move we ' right-about-face ' and march home." 

So saying, Phil Hammer got up from under the 
scrub-pine, where he had made his bed for the 

inland in the direction of Falmouth, and had 
halted and camped for the night in a thick under- 
growth of scrub-pine and cedar. The day of our 
landing was remarkably fair. The skies were so 
bright, the air was so soft and balmy, that we were 
rejoiced to find what a pleasant country it was we 
were getting into, to be sure ; but the next morn- 
ing, when we drummer-boys woke the men with 
our loud reveille, we were all of Phil's opinion, 
that the sunny skies and balmy breezes of this new 
land were all a miserable fiction. For, as man after 


night, shaking the snow from his blanket and the 
cape of his overcoat, while a loud "Ha! ha!" and 
an oft-repeated "What do you think of this, boys?" 
rang along the hill-side on which we had found our 
first camping-place on " Old \'irginia's Shore." 

The weather had played us a most deceptive 
and unpleasant trick. We had landed the day 
before, as my journal says, " at Belle Plains, at a 
place called Piatt's Landing," having been brought 
down from Washington on the steamer " Louis- 
iana" ; had marched some three or four miles 

man opened his eyes at the loud roll of our drums, 
and the shout of the orderly : " Fall in, Company 
D, for roll-call ! " he found himself covered with 
four inches of snow, and more coming down. Fort- 
unately, the bushes had afforded us some protec- 
tion ; they were so numerous and so thick that one 
could scarcely see twenty rods ahead of him, and 
with their great overhanging branches had kindly 
kept the falling snow out of our faces at least, while 
we slept. 

And now began a busy time. We were to 




build winter quarters — a work for which we were 
but poorly prepared, either by nature or by circum- 
stance. Take any body of men out of civilized 
life, put them into the woods to shift for them- 
selves, and they are generally as helpless as chil- 
dren. As for ourselves, we were indeed " Babes 
in the Wood." At least half the regiment knew 
nothing of wood-craft, having never been accus- 
tomed to the use of the ax. It was a laughable 
sight to see some of the men from the city try 
to cut down a tree ! Besides, we were poorly 
equipped. Axes were scarce, and worth almost 
their weight in gold. We had no " shelter tents." 
Most of us had " poncho " blankets; that is to say, 
a piece of oil-cloth about fi\e feet by four, with a 
slit in the middle. But we found our ponchos 
very poor coverings for our cabins ; for the rain just 
ivould run down through that unfortunate hole in 
the middle ; and then, too, the men needed their 
oil-cloths when they went on picket, for which pur- 
pose they had been particularly intended. This 
circumstance gave rise to frequent discussion that 
day: whether to use the poncho as a covering for 
the cabin, and get soaked on picket, or save the 
poncho for picket, and cover the cabin with brush- 
wood and clay ? Some messes* chose the one alter- 
native, others the other ; and as the result of this 
preference, together with our ignorance of wood- 
craft and the scarcity of axes, we produced on that 
hill-side the oddest looking winter quarters a regi- 
ment ever built ! Such an agglomeration of cabins 
was never seen before nor since. I am positive no 
two cabins on all that hill-side had the slightest 
resemblance to each other. 

There, for instance, was a mess over in Company 
A, composed of men from the city. They had oitc 
kind of cabin, an immense square structure of 
pine logs, about seven feet high, and covered over 
the top, first with brush-wood and then coated 
so heavily with clay that I am certain the roof 
must have been two feet thick at the least. It was 
hardly finished before some wag had nicknamed 
it " Fortress Monroe." 

Then, there was Ike Sankey, of our own com- 
pany ; he invented another style of architecture, 
or perhaps I should rather say, he borrowed it from 
the Indians. Ike would have none of your flat- 
roofed concerns ; he would build a wigwam. And 
so, marking out a huge circle, in the center of 
which he erected a pole, and around the pole a 
great number of smaller poles, with one end on 
the circle and the other end meeting in the com- 
mon apex, covering this with brush and the brush 
with clay, he made for himself a house that was 
quite warm, indeed, but one so fearfully gloomy 
that within it was as dark at noon as at midnight. 
Ominous sounds came afterward from the dark 

recesses of "The Wig%vam"; for we were a 
"skirmish regiment," and Ike was our bugler, 
and the way he tooted all day long, " Deploy to 
the right and left," "Rally by fours," and "Rally 
by platoons," was suggestive of things yet to come. 

Then, there was my own tent or cabin, if indeed 
I may dignify it with the name of either ; for it was 
a cross between a house and a cave. .'\ndy and I 
thought we would follow the advice of the Irish- 
man, who in order to raise his roof higher, dug his 
cellar deeper. We resolved to dig down some 
three feet; "and then, Harry, we '11 log her up 
about two feet high, cover her with ponchos, 
and we 'II have the finest cabin in the row ! " It 
took us about three days to accomplish so stupen- 
dous an undertaking, during which time we slept 
at night under the bushes as best we could, and 
when our work was done, we moved in with great 
satisfaction. I remember the door of our house 
was a mystery to all visitors, as, indeed, it was to 
ourselves until we " got the hang of it," as Andy 
said. It was a hole about two feet square, cut 
through one end of the log part of the cabin, 
and through it you had to crawl as best you could. 
If you put one leg in first, then the head, and then 
drew in the other leg after you, you were all right ; 
but if, as visitors generally did, you put in your 
head first, you were obliged to crawl in on all fours 
in a most ungraceful and undignified fashion. 

That was a queer-looking camp all through. If 
you went up to the top of the hill, where the 
colonel had his quarters, and looked down, a 
strange sight met your eyes. By the time the 
next winter came, however, we had learned how to 
swing an ax, and we built oursehes winter quarters 
that reflected no little credit on our skill as experi- 
enced woodsmen. The last cabin we built — it was 
down in front of Petersburg — was a model of com- 
fort and convenience ; ten feet long by six wide, and 
five high, made of clean pine logs straight as an 
arrow, and covered with shelter tents; a chimney 
at one end, and a comfortable bunk at the other ; 
the inside walls covered with clean oat-bags, and 
the gable ends papered with pictures cut from 
illustrated papers ; a mantel-piece, a table, a stool ; 
and we were putting down a floor of pine boards, 
too, one day toward the close of winter, when 
the surgeon came by, and looking in, said : 

"No time to drive nails now, boys; we have 
orders to move ! " But Andy said : 

"Pound away, Harry, pound away; we '11 see 
how it looks, anyhow, before we go ! " 

I remember an amusing occurrence in connection 
with the building of our winter quarters. I had 
gone over to see some of the boys of our company 
one evening, and found they had "logged up" 
their tent about four feet high, and stretched a 

*A "mess" is a number of men who eat together. 



poncho over it to keep the snow out, and were sit- 
ting before a fire they had built in a chimney- 
place at one end. The chimney was built up only 
as high as the log walls reached, the intention 
being to ''cat-stick and daub" it afterward to a 
sufficient height. The mess had just got a box 
from home, and some one had hung nearly two 
yards of sausage on a stick across the top of the 
chimney, " to smoke." And there, on a log rolled 
up in front of the fire, I found Jimmy Lane and 
Sam Reed sitting smoking their pipes, and glanc- 
ing up the chimney between whiffs every now and 
then, to see that the sausage was safe. Sitting 
down between them, I watched the cheery glow of 
the fire, and we fell to talking, now about the jolly 
times they were having at home at the holiday sea- 
son, and again about the progress of our cabin- 
building, while every now and then Jimmy would 
peep up the chimney on one side, and shortly 
after, Sam would squint up on the other. After 
sitting thus for half an hour or so, all of a sudden, 
Sam, looking up the chimney, jumped off the log, 
clapped his hands together and shouted : 

" Jim, it's^o/te / " 

Gone It was ; and )0U might as well look for 
a needle in a hay-stack as search for two yards of 
sausage among troops buUding winter quarters on 
short rations ! 

One evening Andy and I were going lo have 
a feast, consisting in the main, of a huge dish 
of apple-fritters. We bought the flour and the 
apples of the sutler at enormous figures, for we 
were so tired of the endless monotony of bacon, 
beef, and bean-soup, that we were bent on having a 
glorious supper, cost or no cost. We had a rather 
small chimney-place, in which Andy was super- 
intending the heating of a mess-pan half full of 
lard, while I was busying myself with the flour, 
dough, and apples, when, as ill-luck would have 
it, the lard took fire and flamed up the chimney 
with a roar, and a blaze so bright that it iUumi- 
nated the whole camp from end to end. L'nfortu- 

nately, too, for us, four of our companies had been 
recruited in the city, and most of them had been in 
the volunteer fire department, in which service they 
had gained an experience, useful enough to them 
on the present occasion, but mowt disastrous to us. 
No sooner was the bright blaze seen pouring high 
out of the chimney-top of our modest little cabin, 
than at least a half-dozen fire companies were on 
the instant organized for the emergency. The 
"Humane," the "Fairmount," the "Good-will," 
with their imaginary engines and hose-carriages, 
came dashing down our company street, with 
shouts, and yells, and cheers. It was but the 
work of a moment to attach the imaginary hose 
to imaginary plugs, plant imaginary ladders, tear 
down the chimney and demolish the roof, amid a 
flood of sparks, and to the intense delight of the 
firemen, but to our utter consternation and grief. 
It took us days to repair the damage, and we went 
to bed with some of our neighbors, after a scant 
supper of hard-tack and coffee. 

How did we spend our time in winter quarters, 
do you ask ? Well, there was always enough to 
do, you may be sure, and often it was work of the 
very hardest sort. Two days in the week the 
regiment went out on picket, and while there got 
but little sleep and suffered much fi-om exposure. 
When they were not on picket, all the men not 
needed for camp guard had to drill. It was nothing 
but drill, drill, drill : company drill, regimental 
drill, brigade drill, and once even division drill. 
Our regiment, as I have said, was a skirmish regi- 
ment, and the skirmish-drill is no light work, let 
me tell you. Many an evening the men came in 
more dead than alive after skirmishing over the 
country for miles around, all the afternoon. Re- 
veille and roll-call at five o'clock in the morning, 
guard mount at nine, company drill from ten to 
twcKe, regimental drill from two to four, dress- 
parade at five, tattoo and lights out at nine 
at night, with continual practice on the drum 
for us drummer-boys — so our time passed away. 

(To be continued.) 




By the fence, a-mid the clo-ver, 

Stand brave Bob and blithe-some Bess; 

He peeps up, and she peeps o-ver. 

What is the se-cret ? Who can euess ? 




As I WENT down to Lon-don town, 

The cit-y for to see, 
My lit-tle lad, all brave-ly clad, 
Came step-ping up to me. 
" Good-mor-row, pret-ty sir ! " said I. 
"The same to you!" said he. 

1 curt-sied low, and he did bow. 

And doffed his hat and feath-er. 

Said I: "The day is fair and gay." 

Said he: "'T is charm-ing weath-er. 

I, too, go down to Lon-don town, — 
Shall wc not go to-geth-er ? " 

A-way we went, on pleas-ure bent, 

The cit-y we did see, 
And when the sun was sink-ing down, 
Came home right mer-ri-ly. 
" It was a pleas-ant day ! " said I. 
• W'c '11 eo a-eain ! " said he. 

go a-gain 





Bless me ! How bleak November must be in 
books ! ^^'h)•, they say there that it is as gloomy, 
windy, dreary a season as one can well stand ; that 
the earth is dead, as it were, and the sea in such a 
rage about one thing and another that it is as 
much as one's life is worth to venture upon it ! 

Well, all this may be so, but your Jack doubts 
it, and so do Deacon Green and the dear Little 
School-ma'am. You see, we believe in November. 
It 's a good honest month, November is. It does 
n't put on any spring airs, nor freeze you with stiff 
winter manners, but just shakes its crisp yello«- 
leaves at you (the fewer the merrier) and crackles 
its stubble under your feet and meets you in good 
hearty fashion, ready at any time for a romp. If 
you light a fire in its honor, up goes the smoke ! 
out fly the sparks ! and ho for a roaring blaze ! 
If you go out on the sea to find it, there it is — 
strong, brave, and in dead earnest, e\-ery wave 
alive, and a gale in every breath. And what a sun 
it has ! none of your scorchers, but a clean-cut cool 
flood of life and light. Then its stars — how they 
do sparkle ! and all the while if any sturdy little 
outdoor thing wants to grow, and really means 
business, there is sure to be a warmish little corner 
for it somewhere. 

Look out for November, my little lads and ladies ! 
Be as honest, crisp, and bright as itself when it 
shakes hands with you — and give it Jack's best 

Now let us take up the subject of 


Your Jack can not say that he ever actually 
heard it himself, but it often has seemed to him 
that the Sun must have something to say which is 
very pleasant to hear ; else why the answer of joy 
that bubbles up from the meadows and trills from 

the woods, when he gets up bright and rosy of a 
morning? 1 'm told, though, that he has a real 
voice, and that a Mr. Graham Bell has caught its 

And long ago, when the world was a good deal 
younger and, perhaps, quicker-eared than it is 
now, a man named Pythagoras said: "The stars 
in moving produce a heavenly melody which they 
who are wise may hear " ; and that melody he 
called " the music of the spheres." 

Perhaps Pythagoras was right; but, even if he was 
not, why here in our day, as the dear Little School- 
ma'am tells me, stands Mr. Graham Bell, and in 
his hand is a piece of rounded glass called a lens ; 
this he sets up so that it will gather and send on 
their way side by side some of those parts of a sun- 
beam that are called " dark rays," — all you young- 
sters who have learned about the spectroscope will 
know what they are, — these dark rays he lets fall 
upon the flat surface of a delicate telephone, and 
immediately a musical note sounds forth ; and that 
is one tone of the great Sun's voice ! 

So, then, perhaps there may be literal truth as 
well as sublime poetry in the solemn phrase uhich 
I once heard Deacon Green chanting over and 
over to himself: 

*' The Morning Stars sang together 
.\nd all lite Sons of God shouted for joy." 


Talking of the Sun's Voice and those who 
answer it reminds me that, according to the Little 
School-ma'am and, doubtless, other authorities, 
there was in ancient Egypt talk of a certain stone 
statue of Memnon, seated, gazing eastward across 
the Nile. This statue was said to give forth a 
musical note as soon as the sun shone upon it in 
the morning, and it sang all day long ; but when 
the sun sank in the west, the stone sent up a wail- 
ing cry, as if in farewell to the dying light. 

Now was n't this a noble old statue ? St. Nich- 
OL.-\S * has told you all about this appreciati\e 
stone gentleman, but 1 thought it well, just here, to 
call him to mind. 


Your Jack lately overheard Deacon Green 
telling the Little School-ma'am that, one day last 
spring, when he was strolling with a friend in a 
beautiful Connecticut valley, two white crows and 
two black ones flew over his head in company ; 
and he added that he had seen a white blackbird, 
but never until then had he seen white crows. 

A wood-wanderer down in Florida sends word of 
another queer crow. Says he: "I had tripped, 
and bumped my forehead against a tree, and was 
stooping over a quiet pool to examine my hurt in 
the watery mirror, when a harsh, unfeeling voice 
behind me cried, ' Haw, haw ! ' It was just as if a 
man had laughed in derision, and 1 turned quickly, 
feeling a little out of temper at what 1 thought the 
rudeness of a perfect stranger. Looking up, 1 saw 
on a branch not fax away a black crow, sitting as 
gravely as a judge. Just then his bill opened, and 

[ * See St. Nichoijis for October, 1874, page 695.— Ed.) 


J A C K - I N - T H K - r U 1. 1' I T 


out of it sounded the hoarse ' Haw, haw ! ' again. 
Of course that set mc laughing, and away flew 
the ' perfect stranger,' no doubt deeply shocked at 
my want of politeness ! " 


Dkar Jack; Near my home is .-x field where ihe com slands in 
rows like the rank and file of an amiy ; and I love to watch it as I 
lie and swing in my hammock benc;»th the trees. One warm but 
d.'unp summer-night, 1 lay there wide awake and quite still, and the 
moonlight fell upon mc from between the leaves without flickering, 
for there was not a sigh of wind to stir them : even the plumes .tnd 
tassels in the neighboring corn-army were quiet. But all at once there 
came a shy little sound, then another, and sevenU more, and each 
was like the sudden tearing of a piece of soft paper, low but distinct 
And all the while the air was motionless. And do you know, dear 
Jack, i really beheve that then and there I actually heard the com 
grow, and that little sounds were made by the bursting of the 
sheaths of its buds? Of course, 1 know anybody might say: 
" Pshaw ! The idea ! — you 
must have been dreaming ! " 
But i was wide awake, and I 
do not think ! was mist.aken- — 
Yours truly. Amice G. 

Perhaps Amice did 
hear in the great still- 
ness tlic breaking of 
the sheaths and the 
pushing out of the 
budding growths, liut, 
any way. Jack has just 
heard that, by applying 
a new-fangled electrical 
affair, men have made 
the growing of a plant 
show its progress to the 
eye, by the motion of a 
pointer around a dial, 
and have compelled it 
to make itself heard at 
short intervals by the 
regular tinkle of a bell ! 
What next ? 


Nmv and then on sum- 
mer days some beauti- 
ful member of the .Scale 
Wing tribe pays a flying 
visit to your Jack's neigh- 
borhood. And right 
pleasant it is to see him 
hover a moment in the 
air, — and alight on some 
sweet blossom, slowly 
opening and folding up 
his mottled wings, — and 
next floating away in the 
sunshine, hither and 
thither, as light and free 
as if he were a sprite from 
Fairj'-land. Well, my 
dears, here is a picture 
of some pretty creatures of this kind, and here, 
too, is the true story about them : 

During the summer a party of grown-ups were 
camping-out somewhere in Wisconsin, and one 
day they saw at a little distance a tree-branch with 

what seemed to be its own white blossoms having a 
rare frolic with the wind ; for they were blowing off", 
and blowing on again, fluttering up and down, and 
circling about, in a very frisky way. But on going 
close up it «as found that what had appeared to be 
flying flowers really were .a score or more of butter- 
flies clustering around the branch, — a sort of sur- 
prise party of white-winged beauties. 

Your Jack has heard, too, that in Monterey, 
California, there are three pine-trees called " the 
Hutterfly trees " because for at least twelve years 
they have been covered almost all the time with 
live butterflies. The trees measure about eighteen 
inches through the trunk, and they bear quite as 
many butterflies as they have leaves. 

It may be that these particular trees give out an 

odor or yield a sap which the butterflies like very 
much ; but my birds have not told me yet about 
this, and perhaps one of you youngsters will be the 
first to explain to me why butterflies are attracted 
in such numbers to these curious perching-places. 




(A » Operetta /or the Children. ) 

By E. S. Brooks, 

Author of "The Land of Nod." 


The Lord of the Magic Pen. 

Mr. Fact, and Prince Fable: — His Councilors. 

Fancy Bright, and High Desire: — Petitioners on behalf of the 

Columbus, Joan of Arc, and Washington : — Followers of Fact. 
Jack the Giant-Killer, Cinderella, and Robinson Crusoe: — Followers 

ot Fable. 
The Gnome Man. Puck, the Pen's Messenger. 

The Herald from Gnome Man's Land. 
Dolly, Dot, and Dick: — The children's delegates. 
The Musical Frolics. The Page of the Pen. 

The Standard- Bearer. The Elephant Dnver. 

The Elephant 

Half of this operetta is given in this number of St. Nicholas, so 
that all iviio wish to study it for representation jnay take up tlie 
first part o/ it now. The conchtding portion will be given next 
■month, in ample time Jbr preparation /or t/w holidays. 


The design of this operetta is to suggest that under all its song 
and show lurks a meaning, to the effect that children's stories, to be 
effective, must combine all the elements of interest and fancy, of fact 
and fable. The costumes here set down can be added to or departed 
from according to facilities at hand or the taste of the managers. The 
construction and management of the mechanical effects introduced, 
VIZ., the Elephant and the Gnome Man, are known to all, and 
can be undertaken by supple and willing young men. The full 
effect of the presentation will be found to He in the strength and 
training of the Chorus of Frolics, which should be as large as prac- 
ticable (not less than six ; and fifteen if possible), in the accuracy of 
movement, and in the proper attention to stage arrangements and 
details. The bell accompaniment to the choruses, the proper construc- 
tion of the Gnome Man (or dwarf), the elephant and his car, and 
the artistic arrangements of the tableaux, require most care, but the 
result will amply repay the labor expended. 


The Lord of tite Pen. Student's gown of black silk : blouse of 
cardinal, black velvet, and gold. Under-graduate's cap, such as is 
worn in English colleges, surmounted with imita- 
tion quill-pen in silver; gray beard, scepter, car- 
dinal stockings, and slippers. 

Mr. Fact. A straight-cut modem black suit, 
high black silk hat, cane and eyeglasses. 

Prince Fable. Prince's suit of pale blue, white, 
and silver; pale blue stockings, slippers, cap 
with white plume ; cloak to match. 

Fancy Brigltt. Pink tarletan dress, with silver 
stars and bands; coronet, with silver star; pink 
High Desire. A tall boy, with high conical or 
Tyrolean hat. Black, gold, and cardinal court dress ; cloak of same. 

The Page of the 
Pen. Cardinal 
blouse and short 
cloak, with silver 
braid ; skull cap, 
same colors ; car- 
dinal stockings. 
He bears the Mag- 
ic Pen on a large 
cushion of black or crimson. 

Columbus. Underdress of lavender silesia, puffed sleeves; over- 
dress: purple, trimmed with gold braid; lavender stockings; som- 

brero, ^vith lavender or whue plumes. (See picture on any five-dollar 
greenback. ) 

Joan o/ Arc. See picture in Tuckey's Joan of Arc (Putnam, pub- 
lisher) ; short purple dress, purple cap, with white plumes ; armoi 
of silver and gold. 

George Washington. Continental suit (see picture in Lossing's 






Field-Book of the Revolution) ; sword ; blue coat, buff trimmings; 
buff pants, lace ruffles; three-cornered cap, black stockings, buckles 
on shoes. 

Jack tlu Giant-Killer. Blouse of green and buff, red sash, long 
gray stockings, cap, with red plume ; sword and bugle. 
Cinderella. Fancy ball- 
dress of white tarletan, with 
gold stars and bands; train; 
veil; band for hair. 

Robinson Crusoe. Brown- 
ih Canton flannel blouse or 
frock, the rough side out, 
sleeveless; pointed cap of same; gray leggins, strapped across 
above the knee; belt, with pistol; stuffed or imitation parrot on 
shoulder: gun. 

The Standard- Bearer. Tight-fitting suit of cream-white, with 
bands of gold and cardi- 
nal put on, military style; 
cream-white stockings ; 
buckles ; fatigue cap of 
same, with cardinal and gold 

Dolly, Dot, and Dick. Or- 
dinary children's dress, with 
ulsters over coats, and hats 
or caps on. They each carry 
a toy balloon. 

Puck. Dressed as a " Dis- 
trict messenger-boy." 

The Frolics. Fifteen Httle 
girls dressed in white tarletan, as nearly alike as possible ; gauze 
wings, white stockings, white shoes; each with chime of bells. 





TIu Elephant Driver. Moorish dress, while blouse, turhan ; half- 
bare arms, bracelets : large gold circlcis in cars. 

The Elephant, constructed as in engraving, p. 156, "Art of Amus- 
ing," or as shown in "John Spooncr's Great Human Menagerie," 
St. Nicholas for April, 1875. 

Tlte Gnome Man, as in illustration, pp. 94 and 95. " Art of Amus- 
ing." Hb dress is of dark blue, pale blue, and silver; Phrygian 
cap of same. 

The Book Car. Platform fitting over a good-sized child's wagon, 
so arranged that it can be drawn by the two boys who represent 
the elephant : the back made in imitation of a book>cover. 

The Throne atui Drapery. Canopy draped with green and silver, 

with trimmings of crimson and gold ; background, maroon ; chair, 

The Gnotne Man's Alcote. A curtained dais which may be set 
in a recess; drape with Turkey red. 

OOwr Properties. The banner should be cardinal, with the dcxicc 
of a quill pen in silver crossing a broken sword, in gold, and is lined 
with pale blue. Three toy balloons for Dot, Dolly, and Dick. Two 
ihinking-caps, like polo caps ; one of crimson and gold, and one of 
blue and silver. 

The HeraUi. Brown blouse and cloak trimmed with red, blue, 
and gold braid: skull-cap, with same colors; trumpet of cardinal 
and gold, and blue and silver drapery. 


Scene,— Court of the Lord of the Magic Pen. Throne — empty. 
Enter the Frolics, singing : 

Music by Anthony Reiff.* 

This Symphony be/ore each verse. 
A Uegretto. 


Legatiss. — ' " ^=^ 


^ g^ 

^ ^ 1 


summer hours. Troop we all to the call 

blithe and tree ; Sing-ing slow soft and low, 


^^g^ ^^EgS 


1. Here and there, here and there, Thro't he spring day's 

2. Wticre they play, thru' the day, Race we, chase wc. 

*^ Of the chil-dren blithe and small. Chasing show'rs, 

To the Mag-ic Pen we go. Blube and ii-ee. 

verdure fair; Here and there, here and there. Thro* the balmy 
bright and gay;\Vhere they play , thro' the day^There we dart a- 

midst the flow'rs.Thro' the pleasant summer hours, Troop we 
Frolics we,— Childhood's Krolics,bIitiie and tree,Siuging slow, 

Coda after 
^: tost verse. 


summer air. Chasing show'rs 'midst the flowers,Thro'the 
cross their way. Blithe and free, Frolics we,— Childhood's 
I ^^ Frolics, 



to the call Of the children blithe and small, 
soft and low, To the Magic I'en we go. 

D. C. pp 


•Copyright, 1881, by Anthony Reiff. 




Enter Fancy Bright and High Desire. Both speak: 
We 're Fancy Bright and High Desire ! 
Reaching, ever^ high and higher, 
Ours the hands that never tire, 

Ours the feet that climb — 
As we build for childish pleasure 
All the 'joys that children treasure, 
As we set to childish measure 

Life's sweet morning-chime. 

They who take are ever yearning. 
Still for new delights are burning; 
So we hasten, — turning, turning. 

From the homes of men. 
On the mighty Master calling. 
For some childish tale enthralling, 
From the store that 's ever falling 

From the Magic Pen. 

Chorus of Frolics, with bell accompaniment : 

Music by Anthony ReifT.* 

Allegretto. Scherzo. 


Fed. Bells. * 


*^ Copyright, 1881, by Anthony Reiff. 




bells. Thus wc call, Thus we call our Master with our 
fed?— ^ ^ -^ ^ 

bells. Jingle, jingle, jingle. Jingle, jinnle, jingle, Merry 
tr. tr. tr. tr. 

Lord of the Magic Pen ! hail I hail I 



Fancy Bright and Hioii Desire, together: 

O Master of the M.igic Pen, 

Great Wizard of the Brain, 
Come — as we voice our wishes here! 
Come — mighty Master ; quick — appear ! 

Nor let us call in vain : 
Now, as we lift our song again, 
Come — Master of the Magic Pen! 
Chorus of Frolics, as before. 

Enter Master of the Magic Pen, seated on his book-chanot. 
drawn by elephant in charge of elephant driver. The MasterIs 
prccedctf by the STASOARD-nHARER, and followed by the Pack 
OF the Pen (who bears the Pen on a velvet cushion), and by 
Mk. Fact and Prince Fable. Frolics salute with chorus, 
as follows: 

Music by Anthony Reiff.* 


Hail ! hail ! hail ! 

Lord of the Magic Pen '. Hail ! hail ! 

J 1- 

Master : 

^^^lo is it calls? 
Fancy Bright and High Desire: 

We. gracious Master ! — 
Fancy Bright and High Desire. 
To thee we haste 
(Thought flies not faster). 
And for thy boundless aid aspire; 
Kneel before him. 

And bending low. 
Before thy feet. 
With joy and love 
Our sovereign greet. 

Master descends from car and ascends the throne : standing before 
it, says to Driver: 

Lead off the car. 
But wait without until T call, and then 
Bear me to other fields afar, 
Where countless labors waiting are 
Still for the Magic Pen. 

Driver salams low and leads off elephant-car. Standard-bearer 
and Page stand at foot of throne : Fact and Fable stand 
higher, at right and left of Master. 

Master, from the throne, standing : 

I 'm the Lord of the wonderful Magic Pen ; 

I 'm the Master of every Tongue, 
.\nd my stories old for the children I 've told, 

Since the days when the earth was young. 

by Anthony Reiff. 




Far back, far back, in the misty years. 
In ihe young world's morning glory, 

My Magic Pen for the children then 
Traced many a wondrous story. 

And the ages came and the ages fled ; 

But still has my Pen kept going. 
And the children small love the stories all 

That fast from the Pen are flowing. 

And so. Fancy Briglit and High Desire, 
You shall have what to give I am able — 

With the aid of the Pen and my Councilmen — 
My servitors — Fact and Fable. 

Seats himself. 

Fancy : 
High Desire : 
Fancv : 
High Desire : 
Both ; 

I 'm Fancy Bright ! 

I 'm High Desire ! 
Mine are the schemings, 

Mine the fire. 

That still with thought. 
Mount high and higher 
In every childish brain. 

And the children, 

Ever yearning, 
Now for something 

New, are burning. 

Some new story, 
Ask they now again. 

Both, kneeling at foot of throne : 

Mighty Master, 
Give us, give us 
Something grand that shall outlive us. 
That shall stir the hearts of men. 
Then should Fancy 
And Desire 
Never more to lead aspire; 
This might lift the children higher 
By the mighty Magic Pen. 

High Desire : 

What ho, my trusty page ! 
Give quick, give free. 
The Magic Pen. 

Page, kneeling, presents the pen. 

Now Fact, now Fable, 

Come to me. 
And say what shall 

This story be. 
To toucli the children's ken ! 

Quick, Page, 
The thinking-caps for both. 

Page presents caps to Fact and Fable. 
Master continues : 

Think Fact — think Fable. 
Be not loath 

To guide the Magic Pen. 

Fact and Fable place the thinking-caps on their heads, fold their 
arms, and pace slo\vIy up and down the stage, lost in thought, 
while the Frolics sing very soft and low this chorus : 

Moderato con Misterioso. 

Music by Anthony Reiff.* 

Hush ! hush ! hush ! Still all noise and rush, 

-N — K — (k- ^ 



Let no sound be heard ; Think ! think ! think ! 

^ f-=r^ 


^ : 

«J Hush! hush 

— t* — 

hush ! I 





— r " "^ 
— > ' 


— 1 1 

— m F — 

6m): h 1 a ? — 




=g 1 

—0 =— 


1 ^ 



" Copyright, i88i, by Anthony Reiff. 




Mr. Fact, removing cap and bowing to the throne : 

I am plain Mr. Fact, always ready to act 
In the service of sense or of reason;, O Master, the Pen, for the children of men, 
Ciive hut /lilts — wliich are always in season; 

For the truth is the truth ! and a lie is a lie ! 
Howsoever in jewels you dress it; 

If my speech is too plain, I regret — but in v.iin 
Can I seek for soft words to express it. 

Let the little ones know that their duties below 
They must do just as conscience impels them; 

Let them read every day only fads, I should say. 
In the stories that History tells them. 

Bows and steps aside to the right. 
Prince Fable, removing cap and bowing to throne : 

No, Master, no ! oh, write not so. 
Lest dull and dry thy stories wither ; 

Bring joy and light, and pictures bright. 
And day-dreams tri]iping hither, tliither' 

Let elf and fay the livelong day, 
Hold fast and rapt the childish fancies ; 

While far and near, on childish ear, 
Fall only sounds of songs and dances. 

Age travels fast, youth soon is past. 
Let then the Pen, O Master, lighten 

The children's hour ; thou hast the power 
Closed ears to ope, dull eyes to brighten. 

Let Mr. Fact, who knows not tact 
But sini])le sense, teach rule and ; 

The wondrous tale will more avail 
Than dull, dry facts — thus counsels Fable. 

Bows and steps aside to the left. 
Master, rising : 

" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ? "' 
Thus, the Pen tells me, an old poet said — 
If so confusing must your counsels be. 
We might as well go home and get to beii ; 

Vol. I.X.— 6. 

Nothing the children could obtain to-night — 
\'ou are both wrong, and yet, you both are right. 
Vour thinking-caps put on ! seek further speecli 1 — 
Or, stay! that sooner we the end may reach, — 
IIo, Fact and Fable, summon quickly here 
-Some of the tales you VI send the children dear. 

Fact .ind Fable, both: 

Lift, Frolics all, the song and call. 

And bid our thoughts appear. 
Come, stories old, so often told, 
Come to the Master here. 

Chonis of Froucs : 

N. B. — The singers in this chorus should h.ive bells, and sh.ike 
them Kcntly at c.ich note they sing, like sleigh bells : these should 
be shaken loudly at each of the three notes in the closing symphony, 
marked Uing, Dong, Bell ! 

AlUsrctto Moderato, 


^ ■*'-^-T=^ :-^ 


Tinkling, tinkling, swelling, falling. Hear our mystic 

While the children, loft - y, low-ly, Still are watching. 




Come, then, come to Fact and Fable; Come, then, come from 

nook and gable ; Song and sto - ry, haste ye, ^vhen 

Smnmoned to the Mag-ic Pen. • 

Enter, light, Jack the Giant-Killer, Cinderella, and Robin- 
son Crusoe. They cross to Prince Fable and bow to him. 
Fable presents them before the throne. 

Mighty Master — these my stories, 
Age-enshrined in childish glories, 

Jack the Giant-Killer, bold! 

Jack bows to throne. 

Cinderella, never old ! 

Cinderella bows to throne. 

Crusoe, from his island-hold ! 

Crusoe bows to throne. 

Trooping here from field and fen, 
Take them, Master of the Pen ! 

Master : 

You are ■welcome. Fables all. 
To the great Pen's council-hali. 

Prince and his followers step aside. Then enter, left, 
Columbus, Joan of Arc, and George Washington. They 
cross to Mr. Fact and bow to him. F.\ct presents them 
before the throne ; 

These, the followers of Fact; 

Golden deed and glorious act. 
Each one here has known ; 

Take, oh take them. Master mine. 

See in each a truth divine. 
Bending at thy throne. 

Great Columbus, ne'er afraid 1 

Columbus bows to throne. 

Fair Joan, the soldier-maid ! 

Joan bows to throne. 
Washington, the patriot staid ! 

W.\SHlNGTON bows to throne. 
Take them for thine own ! 

Master : 

Hail, glorious Facts ! the Magic Pen 
Records your virtues yet again. 

Frolics in chorus, speaking : 

Valiant Facts and gleaming Fables, 
Trooping here from nooks and gables. 
You are welcome, welcome when 
Summoned by the Magic Pen. 
By each tinkling, tankling bell. 
Speak, we charge you, fair and well ; 
Stories children love to hear. 
Tell now to our Master dear. 

The followers of Fact and Fable stand alternately before the 
Master and speak their lines, saluting him both before and 
after speaking. 

Jack the Giant-Killer, with spirit. (Let the ^Ura-lil~la" be in 
imitation of the notes of a bugle) : 

Where castles gleam, and banners stream 

By hill, and sea, and river ; 
Where helmets flash, and chargers dash, 

.\nd bright swords clash and shiver, 
I scour the land on every hand. 

My bugle sounds : tra-lil-la ! 
•My arm is strong; loud rings my song; 

I am Jack the Giant-Killer ! 

From Dover's boats to John O'Groat's, 

From east to western waters, 
I ride in might, with armor bright. 

Beloved of England's daughters. 
And still my song rings loud and long, 

iSIy bugle sounds: tra-lil-la! 
I fear no fray, come night or day, 

I am Jack the Giant-Killer ! 

With courage bright, I 've faced in fight 

A score of monstrous giants ; 
By pluck and art I played my part. 

And gave them hot defiance. 
They 're met — they 're slain ! and o'er the plain, 

My bogle sounds: tra-lil-la! 
My arm is strong, loud rings my song — 

I am Jack the Giant-Killer. 

Master : 

Hail, mighty Jack '. thy deeds so bold 
The Pen has "told for centuries back. 

/ Jack steps back. 

Joan of Arc : 

Is there aught, O mighty Master, 

In the fairy tales of yore, 
Can surpass my wondrous story. 

Told the children o'er and o'er : 

A simple maid of France, 
Jly dream-eyes saw in trance 

How king and country should be' saved by me; 
My hand should bear the lance. 
My plume lead war's advance. 
My life-blood, pledged to France, 

Should set my country free. 



So, not a whit dismayed, 

Nor once set sore afraid. 
By jeer or laugh, by insult, threat, or frown; 

In armor all arrayetl, 

A simple soldier-maid, 

I led the cavalcade, 
And gave my land renown. 

Up from the dust and mire, 

I raised my country higher. 
And crowned my king, victorious o'er his foes. 

Mine not to rest nor tire 

Till Right o'er Might aspire, 

Nor did I dread the fire 
That 'round me wrapped and rose. 


my stor 
I wouli 

ry, mighty Master, 

d show to girl and boy. 

Still may come — by faith and patience — 
Victory, glory, peace, and joy. 

Brave-hearted girl, full well I heed 
How, in your country's direst need, 
\'our faith so strong gave victory then, 
.\s well records the Magic Pen. 

Joan steps back. 
Robinson Cbcsoe : 

Never yet, O mighty Master, 

Was there boy in boyish days, 
But his heart beat fast .and faster 

.•\s he listened in amaze 
To my deeds of pluck and daring. 

Shipwrecked on the stormy main — 
How I struggled, nothing sparing 

Till I reached the land again. 
How I built my island fortress; 

How I lived from day to day; 
How I builded boats, and fashioned 

Useful things in wood and clay. 
Still my cats, and goats, and parrot, 

Still my dog and gun so sure, 
Still Man Friday, happy savage, 

In boy-hearts shall long endure. 
Restless eyes and breathless longing 

Tell how strong the story's strain, 
.\s the fancies, rushing, thronging. 

Crowd the busy, boyish brain. 
Master : 

Heigh-ho ! Poor old Robinson Crusoe ! 

While your story lives, all boys will do so. 
But for pluck and for push still may boys and may men 
Profit well by the story you give to the Pen. 

Crusoe steps back. 

On Genoa's walls the sunlight falls. 

On Spain's fair fields of glory ; 
.\nd high and proud their legends crowd 

The page of ancient story. 
But, Master mine, not Genoa's line 

Nor knights of Spain were able 
To fin<l, like me, across the sea, 

Realms only known in fable. 

One summer day I sailed away 

.\cross the western waters, 
To where the breeze o'er sunset seas 

Fans dusky sons and daughters. 
In doubt and pain I sailed from Spain, 

But backward soon returning. 
Gave joy serene to king and queen — 

.\ new world, worth the earning ! 
Mine were the hands that gave the lands, 

Mine all the praise and glory ; 
And, teaching still the worth of will, 
I live in childish story. 
Master : 

And still, Columbus, shall your deeds again. 
For worlds new-told, live by the Magic Pen. 

C0LU.MBUS steps back. 
Cinderella : 

Low in the meadows the daisies are springing. 
Lowly the violets hide 'neath the grass ; 

High in the heavens the rainbow is swinging, 
Light o'er the hill-tops the bright sunbeams pass. 

Patient and helpful, in silence and cinders. 

Never complaining, nor moaning her lot; 
Sla\ing, herself, while no pleasure she hinders, 

Work — her day's portion; at night — her hard cot. 
Hark ! with a crash vanish kitchen .and hearth-stone ; 

Pumpkins are coaches — mice horses — rats men; 
Gorgeous in laces and jewels the maid shone; 

Come palace, come ball-room; come prince, joy, — 
and then — 
Naught but once more cinders, hearth, and — a slipper 

Humbleness, drudgery, patience, and thought! 
Then — the shoe fits the fair feet of the tripper, 

Then the prince finds the om maiden he sought. 

Low in the meadows the daisies were springing. 
Lowly the violets hid 'neath the grass; 

Now both wreathe the bride's crown, while bells 
madly ringing 
Proclaim Cinderella a princess at last. 

Master : 

Cinderella, Cinderella! Shall I ever, lass, forget 

The glory of your story, that the Pen is writing yet ? 

Cinderella steps aside. 

George Washington : 

Truth is mighty, truth is noble ; 

This my text, O Master mine; 
This the story to the children 

I would utter, line on line. 

The hurrying years have rolled away, 

.\nd turned a century's score. 
Since — captain of the patriot host — 

I fought at Freedom's fore. 
Years earlier, when a happy lad 

On fair Virginia's plains, 
I spoke the truth in spite of wrong. 

In spite of error's pains. 
Mv father's jny was blest reward 

For truth so fairly spoken. 
And from that day this rule I kept — 
" Let not your word be broken." 
Whatever now of great renown 

My name and fame surroundelh. 
Whatever glow of honest worth 

In my life-work aboundeth. 
To this firm rule is doubly due — 

This rule, to youth appealing: 
"Speak truth; stand firm for simple right; 

Avoid all double-dealing ! " 

Master : 

Still, noble Washington, to teach 

To all the sons of men, 
Thy precepts, — to time's farthest reach. 
In every land, in every speech, — 

Shall flow the Magic Pen. 

Washington steps aside. 

(To be concluded ttcxt month.) 





The Children's Garfield Home. 

The following letter from Master Willie P. Herrick was first 
printed in the AVw }'orA- E-ucning Post, of Sept. 27th, just as this 
number was going to press, but we gladly reprint it here, and hope 
it will be carefully considered by every reader of St. Nicholas : 

I felt very badly when our President died, and my brother and 
I think it would be very nice to have a home in the country for little 
sick children. Mamma thought that each little boy or girl could 
give from one cent up to twenty-fi\'e cents. We thought we could 
call it the Garfield Home, and we also thought it would be very nice 
to ha^'e a picture of President Garfield in it. We would like all little 
boys and girls to join in this. Please put this in the paper, and also 
put in for the parents to tell the children. Willie P. Hekrick. 

Willie and Tottie, 

Newport, Sept. 27th, iSSi. 

We wish to add our hearty praise to Willie's suggestion, and to 
say that we propose to enlist this magazine in the effort to carry it 
out. The Centi^ry Co., publishers of St. Nicholas, have volun- 
teered to receive and credit all subscriptions for the Garfield Home 
that may be sent them — with the understanding that if the total 
amount subscribed should prove insufficient to found a home, it may 
be applied as a ** Children's Garfield Fund " to the benefit of " The 
Poor Children's Summer Home." or some kindred charity of New 
York City. We believe there are thousands of boys and girls all 
over the land who felt as anxious an interest as their elders during 
the long weeks of President Garfield's illness, and as keen a grief at 
his death. And all such young folk will welcome Willie's su;;- 
gestion and the offer of The Century Co. as an opportunity to 
fitly honor the memory of the good President by helping to accom- 
plish a great practical good. Letters and subscriptions may be 
addressed to The Centl'RY Co., Union Square (North;, N. Y. 

For the further encouragement of all those who may wish to sub- 
scribe to the fund, we shall supplement Willie's letter by a sweet lit- 
tle letter from Nellie Satterlee Curtis, which came to us a few weeks 
ago, inclosing ten dollars to send five poor children of New York 
City on a week's visit to the Summer Home. We forwarded the 
letter and the money to the Superintendent, Mr. Fry, and received 
in reply the admirable letter which also is given in this "Letter-bo.\." 
It shows clearly enough how much good could be done by the pro- 
posed "Garfield Home," and little calculation is needed to convince 
any reader of St. Nicholas that a large sum can be quickly realized 
from a great number of small subscriptions. The project of the 
" Children's Garfield Home " is worthy alike of the good and great- 
hearted President and the generous, patriotic boys and girls uf 

Here is Nellie Curtis's letter: 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is eight dollars, for four children to 
go to the place that was written about in St. Nicholas last June, — 
but not this very last, but the summer before this. And this is the 
way of all of it. When Mamma read me that, I thought it was 
splendid, and I wislied I could send the little girl in the picture that 
is down-stairs helping the tiny one down. But I had not two dol- 
lars. But soon after there was a picnic. It wasfifteen cents on the cars 
to the place, and Papa gave me the money to go, and when it was 
Thursday, Mamma was sick and 1 was bound to go, till Mamma 
looked so sad in fear I should get hurt, and I did not go ; and I just 
thought 1 "*ould start with that fifteen cents and earn some more, 
and send a child to the sea-shore. And my Auntie she is awful kind, 
and gives so much, I just thought I would ask her if she would try 
and cam some. And Auntie she thanked me, she was so pleased. 
And most of the money was given me to buy things with, but I had 
rather send the children ; and some I earned sewing, and other 
ways. And then when Mr. Pratt and Mr. Deitrich gave me some I 
thought I would start for another child, and that dear, sweet, precious 
Auntie she said she would try, and four dollars she sends, and her 
name is Harriet N. Austin, and four dollars I send, and I hope the 
children will be happy. I did not want the children to go till water- 
melons came. That piece in St. Nicholas told in the picture how 
they loved it. Will you try and write in your paper if they have a 
splendid time? Oh, I wish I could see them so happy, because I 
have enjoyment all the time ! And Auntie does like it so about the 
children, and every week she writes me just a beautiful letter ! And 
I ought to be happy, and Cousin Mary she thinks I ought to be 

good, when I have such good friends. When next summer comes, 
I hope some more can go with money I will have, and I will ask 
some other children and send awful poor sad ones. Good-bye. 

Nellie Satterlee Curtis. 

P. S. — What do you think! Mrs. Phebe Howe wrote my Auntie 
that her children would send me two dollars to send a child ; and 
so, after my Papa had gut the money fixed, here came two dollars 
from Louie and Emma Howe and their brother, and I am more 
pleased than for myself And now another child will be happy, and 
I think it was so kind for them ; and good Papa got it fixed to ten 
dollars in place of eight dollars. 

And here is the letter from Mr. Fry, which, we are sure, will make 
generous little Nellie and her friends more than ever happy in hav- 
ing saved and sent the money : 

Bath, L. L, Aug. 27, 1881. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Mr. Macy, our assistant secretary, has 
just brought me a veiy sweet letter from Nellie Satterlee Curtis, 
inclosing ten dollars, to send five Httle girls who are not so fortunate 
as she, to spend a week each at the Children's Summer Home, 
Bath, L. L Only a little girl with a heart warm, pure, and tender, 
while surrounded by all the comforts and luxuries of life, would have 
thought of the two hundred and forty destitute children at the 
Home, and so we value her kind words. I hope you will thank her 
even more for them than for the money. I have sent for five little 
girls from the neighborhood of Cherry and Water streets, in New 
York, and they will come Monday prepared to enjoy a week with 
us. When they come I will read Nellie's letter to them, so that 
they may know they are indebted to her and her little friends for the 
pleasant time they will have. Perhaps I may get them to write to 
her, or, if not, then I will write, and tell her all about them that I 
think will in any way interest her. 

I wonder if Nellie and the other little girls know that we have a 
new Home, larger and finer in every way than the one she read 
about in St. Nicholas for June, 1880? It may interest them to 
know something about it; but I must make the story very short, fcr 
you may well imagine the guardian of two hundred and forty little 
girls has but little time to spare for letter-writing. 

The old Home, very near here, was small — an old-fashioned house 
with but scanty room inside, and not very spacious grounds sur- 
rounding it. Not much space for romping, and swinging, and such 
other amusements as children love. Then, too, the dormitories were 
small, so that we could only have about a hundred and fifty 
children there at one time, and were obliged to turn away a number 
of poor little girls, who would have enjoyed a week at the sea-shore. 
But, worst of all, we only rented the house, and did n't know but we 
might have to give it up, and so wnuld have no Home at all. But 
one day Mr. A. B. Stone thought he would go down to Bath and see 
the children in their Summer Home. Well, he came, and saw how 
happy they were; and, just like little Nellie, he said, *T want to 
have more children enjoy a week in the country," and so he bought 
for twenty thousand dollars a beautiful piece of land called Bath 
Park. It is about as big as Union Square in New York City, and 
fronts right on the bay outside of the Narrows. It has a grassy 
knoll, shaded by a number of large trees. There is a very large 
pavilion, that makes a fine play-ground for the children in wet 
weather. Mr. Stone gave all this beautiful land to the New York 
Children's Aid Society. They put up a nice large building and 
furnished it, so that now the poor children who attend the industrial 
schools of New York will have a Summer Home by the sea for all 
time to come. We have a la^ge dormitory, one hundred and ten by 
forty feet, and two smaller ones about forty feet square, giving us 
ample room for two hundred and fifty httle folks. Our dinmg-room 
is large enough to seat the entire number at once. We have a nice 
kitchen, a laundry, a wash-room for the children, a room where they 
keep their clothing, twenty-eight swings, and a merry-go-round with 
seats for twenty-two. So you see we are not badly off. Then we 
have a beautiful sandy beach, and the Atlantic Ocean for a bath-tub. 
Once a day the children bathe, and I am sure you would be greatly 
amused to see perhaps a hundred and sixty little girls splashing 
and screaming with delight, while the teacher in charge stands upon 
the shore, looking a little like a hen with young ducks. From the 
bath they go to the dining-room, where a bountiful meal awaits 
them. They have roast beef, potatoes, bread and butter, and rice- 
pudding for dinner to-day, and the nice salt bath has sharpened 
their appetites. From the dining-room they make a grand rush for 
the swings and the merry-go-round. Some gather in little groups 
about the trees, while many form rings, and so they amuse them- 
selves until supper-time. We have ten cows, that supply us with 
pure country milk, and I assure you the children enjoy their whole- 
some supper of bread and milk. After supper comes a walk on the 
beach, or a stroll through the fields in search of wild flowers. Then 



the rctiring-bcIl rings, a hymn is sung, and soon they arc tucked 
away in ihcir clean little beds, and lost in a refreshing sleep, thai 
Ixsts until the sun, peeping in at the window, calls iheni to another 
day of fun and frulic. And so the week slips away like a long pic- 
nic. On Saturday they go home on the train, and on Monday 
another company of two hundred and fifty is whirled out from the 
crowded city in the same way — many, perhaps, getting their first 
view of the beautiful country-. I often wonder what they think of 
their small, dark, and dirtj- bedrooms at home as they contrast ihcm 
with our large, clean dormitory, with its snowy sheets and wovcn- 
wire mactrcsscs. I am sure they must long to return, and must feci 
very grateful for alt the cumfort and fun of the week. 

I have told you something about the Home in this letter, and I 
think now it would, perhaps, have been better had I inid' you more 
about the children and the wretched homes they live in. Twenty- 
five hundred little girls have already spent a week each at the Home 
this season, and a thousand boys are anxiously waiting for the first 
NIonday in September, so that they may visit us. 

Sincerely your friend, Chas. R. Fry. 

were very large, and blue, pink, and yellow, and as they floated off, 
the colors looked like colored pearl set in the bubbles. 1 wrote this 
to show you that the spool is a success. A Reader. 

Sandy Knoll, Nottingha-m. England. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I think many of your readers may like to 
know, if they have not already found out, what pretty little things 
can be made out of the good ends of burnt matches. 

I will lr>' and describe to you as well as I can how I made a house, 
which, kept carefully as a "show-thing," has lasted a long time. Cf 

Oi R thanks are due to Messrs. Henry Graves & Co., of London, 
for their courtesy in permitting us to copy, as the frontispiece of the 
present number, their beautiful engniWng of Sir Joshua Reynolds's 
portrait of Miss Frances Harris. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I was twelve years old last week, and my 
sister decorated two dozen sheets of writing paper with water-color 
pictures, in the upper left-hand corners, for my birthday present. 
Every sheet is different, and some are very pretty. Perhaps the 
readers of St. Nichol-\s who have a taste for painting would like 
to know how to decorate paper like this for Christmas presenLs. 
Many pretty pictures can be taken from this magazine. Fluffy is a 
very cunning little girl to paint. The poem and illustrations about ht-r 
are in the .\iay number, 1877. Another good thing for painting is 
in the February number of the same year ; it is three little children 
crying. Each figure makes a complete picture. 

First draw the outline of the picture with a lead-i^encil, tint it with 
water-color laid on ver>- thin, and then re-line with burnt sienna. It 
is best to use paper without lines. For a child that can not write 
straight without them, get watered lines. — Your little friend, 

Beatrice Brown. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I think T can interest some nf the readers 
of the Letter-box by telling them of a Pig-a-graph from which 1 
had great pleasure. I took an old account-book, and asked each 
person I knew to draw a pig in it with their eyes shut, and then sign 
their name under it. — Your constant reader, W. Mengel. 

Peoria, Sept. 15, '8t. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I saw in the September number how to 
make com-husk dolls. I made some the day I got the St. Nicho- 
las, and they look very funny. I am sorry the com is gone, because 
1 can't make any more dolls. I like to read the stones in the St. 
Nicholas very much. Irene. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am one of your English readers and reside 
at Congleton. I am thirteen years of age. I have read your stories 
by Mrs. Oliphant of Lady Jane Grey and Mary, Queen of Scots, and 
since reading them 1 have been to Westminster Abbey and the 
Tower. I looked with great interest at the tombs in the Abbey, and 
like your corrcspondcnLs, Carl and Norris, I saw the monument to 
Mary, Queen of Scots, and also that of her rival. Queen Elizabeth. 
I saw the fac-simile of the letter in James L's handwriting, giving 
directions respecting the building of the monument to his mother. 
I also saw the chapel where Queen Elizabeth's tomb is placed, and 
where Oliver Cromwell, and John Bradshaw, who presided at the 
trial of Charles L, were buried: but it was slated that the bodies 
were taken away from there after the Restoration. 1 felt all the 
more interest in this because Bmdshaw was bom a short distance 
from this town, and was the mayor in 1637. For many ycai-s he lived 
in this town, and fearful stories about ghosts with clanking chains 
haunting the house used to be told to our grandfathers when they 
were children. I saw where Queen Elizabeth was lodged as a 
prisoner while in the Tower, as well as the great keep built by 
Wdliam the Conqueror, and the Traitor's CJate, and the gloomy- 
lookine tower called the Bloody Tower. I thought most about 
l^dy Jane Grey, and where she was beheaded, and where the two 
princes were murdered and buried. I saw what seemed to me 10 
look awful, — a block which had been used in the beheading of 
Lord Lovat, and some other noblemen, in 1745, and the marks 
where the a.x had struck the block, and the ax used for beheading; 
also the mask of the executioner. I thought of Lady Jane (ircy lay- 
ing her held down on such a block. I shuddered, and was glad I 
was living in a less barbarous age. Ada Buxton Statha.m. 

course any one who is fond of using his wits and fingers for pretty 
presents can try other things — churcnes. dog-kennels, pin-trays, and 
so forth. I am only going lo lell of one house, the first I ever made. 

l"hc materials needed are 
old wooden matches, of 
which you must first make 
a great collection, card- 
board for the foundation, 
mica or very thin glass for 
the windows, and glue and 
a paint-box ; also a sharp 


FIG. 4. 

FIG. 3. 

knife is indispensable. Take a piece 
of thickish white card-board, about 
five inches square, and toward one 
comer draw the plan of your house, 
and paint the floors of both rooms 
with red and blue tiles. 

The walls are made of matches, 

and you see in Fig. 2 are 2->s inches 

by sijt. and i-H inches by 2, for the 

large and small room respectively. 

Fig. 3 shows how the 

matches are cut and 

glued together, and 

how the window is cut 

out and finished. -At 

the back of the framed 

Dear St. Nicholas : I tried making soap-bubbles with a spool, 
by Maie Stevenson's direction, and succeeded nicely. The bubbles 

window-holes mica or thin glass is fastened, and two thin cross- 
splinters are then delicately glued in front to form the panes. White 
paper blinds are put inside, while crimson curtains and a red pot 
containing a green bushy plant are also painted inside on the mica 
or glass, and give a charming effect. Fig. 4 is the front view 
of the house, and shows both rooms, their windows, the rustic 
porch, and the chimney. The backs and the left sides of both rooms 
are quite plain. 

Now glue the walls down in their proper places, pressing them 
well together, and do not be afraid of the glue, as it helps to stop up 
any little gaps, and makes the little dwelling snugly free from draughts. 

Before putting the roof on. fasten down to ihe floors of the rooms 
any little furniture, such as a three-legged table made of a cross- 
section of a sugar-cane and three points of wood, a wee wooden 
dresser, and so on. 

The roof for the main room Is in two pieces, and made the same 
way as the walls, and is just glued in so as to make two sloping 
sides from the topmost point of the back and front, but no gables, 
and you will find the right and left walls make two triangles which 
stand up from the roof and form a pretty addition to the whole 
effect. The small room should have deep projcciing gables. The 
chimney is shown in Fig. 4. Paint the card-board round about 
green for grass, and lay out the garden with walks as your fancy 
suits you, and for proper gravel-walks gum them and sprinkle 
with sand till well covered. Put bits of mossy bark in appropriate 
places and make as nistic a garden as you can, and finally inclose 
It all with a fence and gate. —Yours truly, 

Emily H. S., isJ^ years. 





.-ill allow a 

It may be well to explain to the many children who are now read- 
ing the pages of St. Nicholas for the first time, that the Agassiz 

Association is a society organized for the purpose of studying natural 
objects. The Association has been in existence for about seven years, 
but has consisted of less than a hundred members, chiefly li%^ng 
among the Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, until last No- 
vember, when a general invitation was given, through the columns of 
St. Nicholas, to all who were interested in nature, to join this society. 
At that lime a general outline of our plan was given, a simple 
constitution was presented, and the kind indorsement of Professor 
Alexander Agassiz was noticed. To the several numbers of St. 
Nicholas since October, 1880, then, we beg to refer all readers who 
would know more of our society. We will repeat, however, that the 
invitation to membership is unrestricted by considerations of age, 
ability, or place. Most of our members are under twenty years of 
age, many are not yet ten ; but we are happy to count in our ranks 
a large and increasing number of fathers and mothers, teachers and 
college professors. We need the older to help us answer the ques- 
tions of the younger, and we must have the little ones to help us 
puzzle those who have been growing wise for many years. 

Our plan is to have small branch societies, consisting of not less 
than four members, formed in different towns. These local " chap- 
ters," while adopting the general name of "Agassiz Association," 
and conforming to our constitution, are at perfect liberty to frame 
their own by-laws and arrange their own plans of work. 

There is no initiation fee to be paid to the Central Lenox Chapter, 
and nothing is required of the chapters excepting a monthly report of 
progress, including such details as names of new members, reports 
of discoveries, accounts of expeditions, etc. 

Il is our aim to make the Agassiz Association direct its members 
to courses of reading, to methods of observation and collection, answer 
their questions when not too difficult, and help them to exchanges 
among themselves of such duplicate specimens as they may have to 
spare Since last November we have heard from about twelve hun- 
dred young people, nearly all of whom have become active and 
enthusiastic members. 

While we prefer to have independent local chapters formed, 
wherever four persons can be found who take sufficient interest in 
what lies in the fields about them, yet when it happens that only 
one or two wish to join, we ha^ e arranged to receive them as corre- 
sponding members of our home chapter at Lenox, on the same terms 
as we receive the boys of our own academy, viz. : the payment of 
twenty-five cents initiation fee, and the agreement to send us a 
monthly report on some subject agreed on between them and the 
president. These reports are read at the meetings of our Lenox 
chapter as a regular part of our proceedings. Among the questions 
most uniformly put to us by new correspondents have been these: 

'■ How can I join the Associ.«ion ? How can I make a cabinet ? 
How can I catch insects? How can I kill them ? How can I pre- 
sene them ? How am I to press flowers S " 

All these questions have been carefully answered and illustrated 
in previous reports of the A. A., and we must request new members 
not to repeat these inquiries, but to refer to the back numbers of 
St. Nicholas. 

When a new chapter is formed, there are two items which the 
secretary thereof should always make a point of noting in his first 
letter to us. isL The names of all the members. 2d. The special 
branch of study in which each is interested. 

Now, in accordance with our report of last month, we a 
few of our friends to have the floor : 

" St. JoHNSBfRY, Vt. 

" Dear Sir : We are a ' Chapter ' of the Agassiz .Association, 
No 83' and are tr>-ing t") improve our minds in natural history 
by corresponding with persons interested in that science, and 
exchanging specimens. , ■ j j 

" We first started about the last of February, and painted and 
papered our room for meetings, and made cabinet cases, which we 
have already filled. We have two hundred minerals, as many 
shells, and over one hundred insects. We have also deposited in 
the savings-bank a number of dollars which we have earned. W e 
wish to correspond with others and to exchange minerals and other 
specimens. F. F. Fletcher, Pres., Box 368. 

We would suggest that applications for exchange be more definite, 
and expressed in as few words as possible — for example : 

The Lenox, Mass. , Chapter will exchange labeled specimens of 
sea-weed for mounted and labeled wild flowers of Colorado. 

It is well also, in asking for exchanges, to be rather too modest 
than too bold in your requirements. One member seems to err a 
trifle in this regard, for he writes : 

" I have two bugs which I wish to exchange for a piece of gold 
ore and silver ore." 

Still, it depends on the bugs ! 

We must make room for a bright letter from a little Bennington, 
Vl, girl of eleven. It shows how to study without a text-book. 

" Dear Mr. Ballard: I would like to join the Agassiz Associa- 
tion, if you please. I make litde discoveries in a pool of dead water 
near our house. Of course, what I call discover- 
ies, is finding out things without looking in a book. 

" In the pool there are some things that I call snai s, 
but they are black, and their shells don't look like snails 
shells. One day I took two old pans and filled them 
with water. Then I caught some of the snails and 
put them into the pans. They had horns. I took some 
water-soaked leaves out of the pool and most of them 
had a kind of substance like yellow jelly full of white 
specks on them. The snails ate the decayed leaves 
greedily, but after they had had one "square nieal, 
they did n't seem to eat any more for a long time. 
"Their shells are fastened to their necks I think — 
for they take every part of their bodies out of their 
shells except their necks. 

"Pretty soon the little white specks began to come 
out of the jelly. I looked at them closely, and they 
were baby snails. They were white, and had little 

shells on. , , „ r i. i.- 

" Some of them fastened on to the shells of the big 
snails and went sailing around with them. -The pngest 
of the big snails were half an inch long. I call these things 
because tTiey look more like them than anything else; but I wish 
vou would tell me what they really are.— Oood-bye. 
•' " Irene Pltnam. 

Will some member of the A. A. please express an opinion on this 

" We have a red-cap's nest in our porch, and would like to cage 
them for pets, but do not k^ow what to feed them on, or whether 
they would live in a cage. "' ■""■ 

Please answer. „ 

" Marguerite and Alberta. 

We are sure that, on second thought, no members of the A. A. 
will wish to "cage" any bird which has shown sufficient friendli- 
ness and confidence to nest so near their home. Watch the habits 
of the little red-caps and let them fly away. 

It is now time to be on the watch for snow-crystals. Let them fall 
on a black cloth. Examine them through a hand-glass, and draw 
them as accurately as you can. We shall hope to receive a large 
number of drawings during the winter. Please remember always 
to note the temperature and the force of the wind at the time of 
observation. Write your letters on one side of the paper only; 
make them as terse as possible. Write your address very plainly, 
and inclose stamped envelope for reply. All such letters receive 
prompt attention. Harlan H. Ballard, 

Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. 






Geographical Doible Acrostic. Primals, Paris. Finals, 
Seine. Cross-words: i. PamassuS. 2. AdigE. 3. Rimini. 4. 
IndiaN. 5. ScvillE. 

Easy Double Cross-word Enigma. Hanesi home hanest 




F-l-ir-l. 3. H-y-cn-a. 4. P-e-ar-1. 
Easy Shakespearean Numerical Enigma. 

I. C-l-ow-n. 

' True hope is swift, and flics with swallow's wings; 

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures, kings.. 

Richard 11!., Act v.. Sc 

tcenc 2 

Easy Hour-glass. Centrals, Apron. Across: i. TrAmp. 
.\Pc. 3. R. 4. cod. 5. HaNdy, Riuule. Hearth. 

Two Word-squares. I. i. Hides. 2. Ideal. 
Eaten. 5. Slant. II. 1. Champ. 2. Hngar. 
Mates. 5. Press. 
Cross-woku Enigma. Organ grinder. 
Numerical E.sigma. 

" Autumn laying here and there 
A fiery finger on the leaves." 

Tennyson's "/« Memoriam" Part XCIX. 

*• You hear that boy laughing? You think he 's all fun; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. 
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all ! " 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, in TIte Boys. 

Diamond. 1. P. 2. REd. 3. ReArs. 4. PcaNuts. 5. DrUry. 

6. STy. 7. S. 

Doi iM-E Central Acrostic. Third line, Hallow-e'en. Fourth 
line, All Saints'. Cross-words: i. AgHAst. 2. RcALly. 3- 
IJaLI^d. 4. NcLSon. 5. CIOAks. 6. SaWIng. 7. BlENds. 
8. BeETle. 9. CeNSus. 

Proverb Rebus. A penny saved is a penny earned. 

Enigmatical Geography Lesson. 1. ^lame. 2. Massachu- 
setts. ^. California. 4. New Jersey. 5. Maryland. 6. Idaho. 

7. Indiana. 8. Florida. 9. Arizona. :o. Dakota. 11. Iowa. 
12. IllinoLs. 13. Ohio. 14. Nebraska. 15. Oregon. 16. Minne- 
sota. 17. Wisconsin, 18. Delaware. ly. .Missouri. 20. Colorado. 


I am composed of twenty-nine letters, and am Lord John Rus- 
sell's definition of a proverb. 

My 19-3-13 is a beverage. My 12-27-14-29-15 is currency. My 
9-25-8-18 is a condition of the mind. My 11-23-17-7 is to discover 
Sly 20-5-28-1 is to imply. My 22-16-26-24 '-^ t*^ cause to float. 
My 4-2-10-6-21 means belonging to whom. alice k. m. 


slender twig, and make without color, ir. Transpose observed 
closely, and make tuned. 12. Transpose yawns, and make attend- 
ants upon a nobleman. G. F. 

I. I. A CIT\* of Europe. : 
Opinions. 5. Reason. 

II. I. A cone-bearing tree, 
country. 4. A wading bird. 


. (Jut of the way. 

3. Ascended. 4. 

2. Cenilean. 3. Pertaining to the 
5. A woman's name. 

Reading Across: i. Close at hand. 2. To scorch. 3. A com- 
panion. 4. Four-sevenths of a young fowl. 5. A weed. 6. To 
satisfy. 7. The central part of fruit. 8. The rind. 9. Part of a 
window ID. A town of Italy, made famous by the victory won 
there by Napoleon I. against the .^ustrians. 11. A division of a 
book. 12. To cast off. 13. To inform. 

Zigzags, be^nning at the top, spell a name by which " Hallow- 
e'en" is sometimes called. dyke Clements. 


When* the following transpositions have been rightly made, the 
middle letter of each word, reading in the order here given, will 
name a festive occasion. 

I. Transpose an old-fashioned conveyance, and make entrance- 
ways. 2. Transpose a pang, and make different. 3. Transpose 
kingly, and make a brilliant light. 4. Transpose an inhabitant of 
the " seven-hilled" city, and make a nobleman's estate. 5, Xi^ns- 
pose a large nail, and make lances. 6. Transpose rescues^ and 
make ornamental vessels. 7. Transpose a red color, and make a 
dishonest person. S. Transpose delicate shades, and make to limit. 
9. Transpose a herd of catUe, and make roamed. 10. Transpose a 


I. All of the words described are of equal length. The letters of 
the second and fourth lines, rcadinfj downward, name mythical 
Scandinavian deities. 1. Outer cuvenngs, 2. A western territory 
of the United States. 3. One unreasonably devoted to a cause. 
4. Clrcatly incensed. 

II. This may be solved similarly to the preceding: the letters of 
the second line, however, reading downward, name the religious 
book of the old Scandinanan tribes; and those of the fourth line, 
reading downward, name an heroic legend of the Norsemen. 1. A 
sumptuous entertainment. 2. Wholly imaginary. 3. .\ maxim. 
4. Pertaining to the highest dignitary of the Romish church. 


In double form my 7?'*^/ Is famed, 

In fable and in nistor)'; 
Great, good, and true, — small, shy, and false; 

Solve, if you can, this mystery. 

Mv sccon-i figures in rom.ance, 

In ballad, and in story: 
Has lain above the lover's heart. 

And grasped the sword of glorj'. 

" Far from the madd'ning crowd" my tofiole 
Exists for beauty only; 
It shims the city's crowded way*;, 

And springs in hamlets lonely. M. w. g. 


I. Lv commencing. 2. A vehicle. 3. .A. frolicsome leap. 4- A 
chief officer. 5. A domain. 6. An edge. 7. In ending. 





The solution of this rebus cnnsists of 
three line:^ from a well-known poem by 
Robert Bums. 


I, Behead wandering, and leave a 
broad, flat vessel : again, 
and leave a line of lighL 
2. Behead a strip of leather, 
and leave a device for snar- 
ing animals; again, and 
leave a smart blow. 3. 
Behead usteless from a§e, 
and leave a storv : again, 
and leave a be\ erage 


The syncopated letters, read in the order here given, spell what 
Shakespeare says has been " slave to thousands. 

J Syncopate a leaf of the calyx, and leave to mark with a stamp, 
o Syncopate discovered, and leave over-affect lonate. 3. Syncopate 
an animal, and leave a flexible pipe. 4. Syncopate the tanned 
skin of a sheep, and leave to dehver from arrest. 5. Syncopate to 
extract the essence by soaking, and leave a pace, perry adams. 


I AM a word of letters three; 

Many changes lie in me: — 

First, about the air I fly; 

Next, beneath your window cry; 

Here, I'm found beneath your feet; 

Next, you wear me in the street; 

Now, I am a small boy's name; 

Then, an Irish birth I claim; 

Here, a trap is set for me; 

Now, a verb I chance to be; 

By feasts and plenty now I'm made; 

Next, brewers use me in their trade. 

Change but my head each time and see 

How these queer turns can in me be. 

MARV o. N. 





* * ♦ * 

Rfading Across : i. To tie together. 
■2 A loud sound. 3. An operatic au-. 
4. Voluble. , , 

Initials, read downward, to boast. In- 
itials, read upward, external appearance. 
Finals, read downward, a dull color. 
Finals, read upward, a poet. DYClE. 


My primals and finals each name a celebrated naturalist 
Cross-words: i. An eminent Roman commander, who was 
father-in-law to the historian Tacitus. 2. A species of antelope 
T To rectify. 4. A French coin of small value. 5- A sailor who 
i'as been credited with wonderful adventures. 6. A coloring mat- 
ler. 7. A small stringed instrument. ". c. l. 

Answers to August Puzzles were received, too late for ac- 
knowledgment in the October number, from Emma A. Bryant 3— 
Ma^A K., 5- Margaret B. and Beatrice C. B Sturps Pans 
France, all-Geo. Smilh Hayter, London, England 5 —-^rchie and 
Charlotte Warden, Havre, France, S-'/Dycie, Havre, France 11 
— Hester Powell, Gloucestershire, England, 8— M. H. M., Hants, 

^AnTwer^ to all of the Puzzles in the September number 
were received, before September 20, from Frank R Heath— Ir'ro- 
fessor and Co."-J. H. Eaton-John Payne— Dorothy-Grace 
R "ngraham and Josie M. Robbins-Fred C. McDonald-- Grace 
E. Hopkins-Charlie and losie Treat-J. Deane and E; P°°'f7 
Herbert Barry - P. S. Clartson-RowlandH. Jackson- Boccac- 
cio '•-"Skipper"- H. and B.-HenryC. Brown- Luther M. 
Scroggs-Hattic B. Hawes, and Carrie L. Borden-Edward Vultee- 
" Chuck "-Daisy May-Trask-Nelhe, Grace, and Harold-J. S. 
Tennant-" Queen Bess"-" Partners"-" 80 and 8t ■- Engi; 
ncer"-"Darsy and Kittie "- Florence Leslie Kyte- " Guesser 
— Madge Clark. . , 

Answers to Puzzles in the September number were received, 
before September 20, from George Gillespie, 3— Edgewood, 3— 
Etta Hawxhurst, i-"Will O. Tree," 3-H. A \edder, 4- 
"Cr>-stale," 5-Camille Giraud, 8-" Sweetie and Pet 4-Mars, 
,-H. H. Bobkid, 11- Archie F. Hassam, i — Gertie Jenkins, 7— 
"Y A C ," 2 — J. Milton Gitterman, 2—' A- L. C. R., Ji — 
" Apnland May," 5-Ed,th Beal, 6- Mate P. Bartle.t, i-E. E^ 
S 1 — No name, 11 — Theodore Tankauer, 4— Jennie trench, ^- 
HkrryTharne, ii-AnnieJ. Pique, i-" Fairview Nurserj., ii-^ 
£d>^d Liddin Patterson, ,i-Everett W. Stone, 6-^^^'^- 
Carnahan 4 -Weston Stickney, j — Eleanor Tellmg 6— Lottie A. 
La ey, 8-^ Milton S. Lacey. i.-john Z. Miller, — I^fn'r.Bethune 
i_E. J. Campbell, 7- Elise Mercur, 11 -" Somebody, 2-Lida 
P. Bostwick, 9 -Grace Redpath, i- Kenneth B. Emerson, 5- 
Jessie, Ernst, ilaud, and Jinks, 4-" Atlanta , 3- ^^^^'^h^'C 
fc. M. Mathews and family, i. -" Bell, 5 - Lizzie B. and Charles 
J. Townsend, 5- Belle Prindw.Ue, i_Corn,eand May, S- ^loMs 
"Charles," and "Beetle," 11 -Caroline Stuart Dickson i-- Alice 
Fuller, 6-Effie K. Talboys, 9-Incognito, ,-Lulu Clarke and 
Nellie Caldwell, ,r- Josie Hamilton i- Julia Sturc!e^.ant 3- Rose 
Raritan, 3-Maijorie Murray and Tommy Pillsbury, "j;: Mg- 
non," 2-RoryO'More, 3-C. L. K. and M. N., Jr., i— O. u. 
N Powder-maker," 2 -Bessie Taylor, - " Puss-m-boots, l- 
Lucy Chandlee, 6-Rebie S.. Webb, 7 -Florence Beckett, 3--S^- 
lie Viles, II — Clara and Jim, i-Anna and Alice lo-Caxne 
Hitchcock Wilson, i-Leslie W. Hopkinson 4-' Stisie, l- 
Conmd and Frank, 9- Clara Mackinney, 7- Gipsy Valentine i- 
May Beadle, 11- Ed?th and Townsend Mck'eever 8- " Underella 

I- Raymond Carr, i-Virgime '-^"j^=>;"v'^tVHd^v i Alolh^ 
Lizzie Barker and Mattie C"k, 3-Sad.e E^^Maddox, i-Molhe 
Wei^s =— Walter O. Forde, 8—" Peasblossom. 2— M. and w. 3. 
Ccmant 8- Lizzie Fyfer, t^- Florence R, R="icl.ffe 3-D A"b^ 
and W Ihelmina Amsterdam, 3- Mam.e ^I^g"^''^' '-'^''^''f ;[^; 
Posver 8— "P. Nut," 4— "Daphne," 4— Perry Beatt.e 4— li»« 
Minot 5- Belle Huntley and Emma W. Myers, i.°-OC. Turner. 
11- Mollie Swipes, 2- Caroline Larrabee, 8- Edith and Jessie 7- 
Marion, LiUa, andDaisy, 8- Nellie J^. Gould, 7"" Two Pe?P ■=• 7 

— Chirles H Phelps, 4— Alice M. Kyte, 11— Stowe Phelps, o-- 
" DSc^Deadeye," 9'- Amelia Ward. 5-Dollie Francis, 11- " F'as 
Friends," 8- " Sairey Gamp and P.etsey Png 9-A^f^^ J"l 
nings, 2- Florence Provost, 2--X. Y. Z., 777* "=? X,t Ir , 
Johl, W. Wroth, i<^ Bessie C. Barney ii-NicoU Ludlow Jr, 7 

— Belle and Bertie, 8— Estner L. and Geo. J. Fiske, 7— Alice 
Rhoads, 5-Carol and her Sisters, 10- J. OUie Gayley, ^ Katnna, 8. 

tSee page 92-] 

By permission of iioupil &■ Co. 

Engraved by Cole, after the painting by Zamacois 


Vol.. IX. 

DECEMBER, 1881. 

No. 2. 

[Copyright, i88i, by The CENTURY CO.) 



In the Middle Ages, when kings and great lords 
had almost no occupation beside ftghting and hunt- 
ing, they lived apart in large, gloomy castles, built 
for strength and defense, with little thought of 
cheerfulness. During the season of the year when 
they could not ride with hawks and hounds to hunt 
the wild animals which then abounded in all parts 
of Europe, nor enjoy themselves in their own pleas- 
ure-grounds, time must have hung heavily upon 
their hands. Books w-ere few, and learning was 
thought lit only for "women and clearks." 

Therefore, to beguile their time, almost every inan 
of means kept a professional "fool" or "jester." 
And the jester often was a dwarf, more or less 
deformed, whose misfortune was considered a fit 
subject for mirth in those rough days. 

The fool's dress was usually of rich materials, 
made in the most fantastic style, and of various 
hues, but yellow was the distinctive color for orna- 
ment and fringes. Cocks' feathers and foxes' tails 
were worn, while a number of little bells, attached 
to the clothes, tinkled gayly with every motion. 
Jesters always wore a wallet, and they carried a 
stick, on the end of which was either a funny head 
car\-ed in wood, or else a bladder with a few rat- 
tling peas inside. The favored fool had access to 
his master, even if it should be a king, at any hour 
of the day or night. And, naturally, through this 
intimacy and the fact that his business was to 
amuse, he frequently obtained great influence over 
his master, w-ho, with tlie entire household, would 
become much attached to him. 

Shakespeare represents domestic fools as often 
bitter and sarcastic, but faithful and attached, ready 
to go into poverty and exile rather than leave their 
friends when overtaken by adversity. 

Vol. I.\.— 7. 

King Lear, when driven out into the storm by 
his daughters, is followed by his fool. And when 
Rosalind is banished from her uncle's court. Touch- 
stone leaves his comfortable home, and goes with 
her and her faithful cousin into the wild forest. 
Hamlet remembers, when he sees the skull of his 
father's jester Yorick, how " he had borne me on his 
back a thousand times," and that he, when a light- 
hearted, happy little prince, "had pressed his lips 
he knew not how oft." And speaking of Shake- 
speare, all who have read the great master's plays 
must ha\e noticed how often he puts wonderful 
bits of wisdom into the li\ely, mocking raillery' of 
the beloved fool. 

An Italian jester named Gonello, born in Flor- 
ence about 1400, A. D., entered the service of the 
Marquis of Ferrara, by whom his judgment was 
so highly prized that he was consulted on ihe 
most important state affairs. In course of time, the 
Marquis lost his health, and the doctors declared 
that nothing would restore it save the shock of an 
unexpected cold bath. But no one dared to give 
the Marquis a ducking. 

At last, Gonello resolved, as his patron grew 
worse and worse, that he would try what no other 
friend or servant of the Marquis would venture to 
do. One day, walking beside tlie river with his 
lord, Gonello, without a word, pushed him in, 
waited just long enough to see that the Marquis 
was pulled out alive, and then fled to Padua. 

The sudden plunge had the wished-for effect on 
the health of the Marquis ; but he, far from being 
grateful, flew into a rage, and issued an edict that, 
if Gonello should ever set foot again on the soil of 
Ferrara, his life should be forfeited. 

Poor Gonello was homesick enough in Padua. 




He read the edict through and through, until he 
saw that he was prohilsited only from setting foot 

on the soil oi Ferrara. Then 

he quickly got a donkey-cart, 
filled it with earth, and labeled 
it "Paduan ground." Perched 
on this, he passed in state into 
the streets of Ferrara. But he 
was soon seized, thrown into 
prison, tried, and convicted of 
having laid violent hands on 
the Marquis, and of having 
disobeyed his edict, for which 
offenses he must die. 

On the day appointed for 
his execution, the whole city 
turned out to see him. The 
poor fellow was blindfolded ; 
his head was placed on the 
block. But the executioner, 
instead of lifting the ax, dashed 
a pailful of water on Gonello's 

Then the people knew that 
all the dreadful preparations 
had been made in jest. How 
they waved their caps, and cheered, and shouted : 
" Long live the Marquis ! " " Long live Gonello ! " 

found that the poor fellow could joke with them 
no more. He had been frightened to death. The 



But Gonello did not rise, and when his friends, 
with laughter and congratulations, lifted him, they 

Marquis, full of remorse at having, by his cruel 
joke, destroyed his faithful friend, gave him a 
grand funeral, and did everything in his 
power to honor his memory. 

Francis I., of France, had a jester of 
great beauty and refinement, who wrote 
verses which the King was glad to pass off 
as his own. This person was selected, when 
a boy of thirteen, on account of his remark- 
able brightness and beauty, to be the King's 
jester, notwithstanding the entreaties of his 
parents, who were of noble birth, and in 
spite of the tears and prayers of the boy 
himself, who had hoped to be a soldier and 
a great man. It is sad to think of the 
noble-hearted lad, secretly pining in the 
splendor of the court, yet bravely doing his 
best to enliven the dull hours, and perhaps 
trying his powers at a war of wits when he 
would have preferred to do battle in earnest. 
But I can not give you his history here. 
You may be sure, however, that he was not 
so happy as Will Somers, of England. This 
famous wit, who was jester to Henry VIII., 
asked among many jokes, "What is it, 
that the less there is of it the more it is 
feared ? " and then enjoyed the surprise of 
the court on his telling the answer — "A 
little bridge over a deep river." His repu- 
tation spread to his old home in Shropshire, and his 
aged uncle trudged up to Greenwich to visit him at 




the court. The countrynian's old-fashioned dress 
and simple manner, as he passed through the streets 
asking the way to the Kinj^^'s palace, attracted 
attention. When he found the building, lie asked 
the jeering pages at the gate, " If there was not 
a ' gentleman' at court named William Somers?" 
The pages laughed in disdain, and led the old 
man to a place where Will was sleeping in the 
park, with his head resting on a cushion that a 
poor woman had gi\en him 
because he had interceded 
to save the life of her son, 
who had Ijccn condemned 
to be hanged as a pirate. 
Will greeted his uncle 
with affection, and as he led 
him through the presence 
chamber, where crowds of 
richly dressed courtiers were 
assembled, he called aloud : 
" Room, knaves ! Room 
for mc and my uncle !" 

Then, seeing that his rela- 
tive's dress was not a fitting 
one in which to appear be- 
fore the King, Will took 

him to his own room and 

dressed him in one of his 

queer motley suits. This 

done, Will brought his uncle 

in before " Bluff King Hal," 

who was much amused at 

the contrast between the 

venerable figure and its droll 

costume. Treating the 

uncle with respect due his 

years, the King encouraged 

him to talk. 

The old man then told 

His Majesty about a com- 
mon near his home, which 

had been unjustly shut up 

from the poorer people. 

And the King was so much 

interested in his account of 

the affair, that he ordered 

the ground to be thrown 

open to the public at once, 

and created the old uncle 

bailiff of the common, with 

a salary of twenty pounds 

a year, which in money of to-day would be a 

very comfortable income. 

In those early times, jesters appeared on all oc- 
casions. They bustled about at the tournaments, 

and were busy with sharp remarks on the proceed- 
ings — now full of pity, now exulting, ready to help 

the fa\orite knight to victory or to lead from the 
field his fallen foe. 

A jester once complained to his king that an 
offended noble had threatened to kill him. 

"If he does," said His Majesty, "I sh.all have 
him hanged a quarter of an hour afterward." 

" Ah, but that would not save my life," said the 
Fool. "Could n't you have him hanged a quarter 
of an hour before ? " 


Jesters filled, in their time, a humble but impor- 
tant place, telling the truth to those who would not 
have heard it from any one else. And they some- 
times acquired such great influence that many 
persons found it safest to treat them with consider- 
ation, or learned to their sorrow that to offend the 




king's favorite was to place an obstacle in their own longer needed, and the theater and the production 

road to advancement. of books and ballads gave a new field for the 

But as intelligence became more general and talents of those who in ruder times would have 

reading more common, household jesters were no worn the cap and bells. 



"^ I i1tle Y^&v]C ^ Tea-n-ne 
I ney wenT oiCt foa-elhev 
(^^©M@km. to dine • 

But They coiJdnT agree 
V ov when she said [jui 

He always woulci answer her 
... |\|eiia 







BY H. H. 

'T WAS on a bitter winter's day, 

I saw a strange, pathetic sight; 
The streets were gloomy, cold, and gray. 

The air with faUing snow uas white. 

A httle ragged beggar child 

Went running through the cold and storm; 
He looked as if he never smiled. 

As if he never had been warm. 

Sudden, he spied beneath his feet 

A faded button-hole bouquet : 
Trampled and wet with rain and sleet. 

Withered and \\orthless, there it lay. 

He bounded, seized it with delight, 

Stood still and shook it free from snow; 

Into his coat he pinned it tight, — • 
His eyes lit up ^^■ith sudden glow. 

He sauntered on, all pleased and jjroud. 

His face transformed in every line; 
And lingered that the hurrying crowd 

Might chance to see that he was fine. 

The man who threw the flowers away 
Never one half such pleasure had ; 

The flowers' best work was done that day 
In cheering up that beggar lad. 

Ah mc, too often wo forget, 

Happy in these good homes of ours. 
How many in this world arc yet 

Glad e\cn of the withered flowers ! 

Bv H. Maria (;korge. 

He lived a great many years ago, in a country 
across the sea, near the Black Forest. His father 
was a small Saxon land-holder by the name of Bill- 
ung, who owned a few acres of feeding-ground, 
some more of forest, and a poor hut of wood, with 
a thatched roof, wherein he lived with his wife and 
two children, — Hermann and a girl. 

Hermann was two years older than his sister 
Gertrude, who was seven. He was a manly little 
fellow, very brave and very strong for his age. 
Often the children were sent to the forest to cut 
wood for fuel, for the father had to work in the 
field all day and the mother had to spin. The boy 
carried a big, heavy knife, curved almost like a 
sickle. This he used instead of an ax. Hermann 
cut the wood, and his little sister tied it in small 
bundles and carried these to the hut. 

At this day, wolves are seldom found in the Black 
Forest ; but in Hermann's time, almost a thousand 
years ago, they were very numerous there. Great, 
fierce, shaggy monsters they were, who, when 
urged on by hunger, would not hesitate alone to 
attack men. 

Hermann and his sister had been told not to linger 
in the forest after sundown. But one day the boy 
espied an eagle's nest, and he was so long in 
reaching it that twilight had ended before they 
started home. Just in the edge of the forest they 
were met by a fierce growl, and Hermann had 
barely time to clutch his knife, which was slung 
at his back, when a wolf rushed upon his sister. 

The beast was one of the largest and fiercest of 
its kind, and Gertrude must certainly have fallen a 
victim to its savage attack, had not her brother 




placed himself in front, cutting and slashing in a 
way that would have done credit to any of the 
knights at the Emperor Otho's court. But the wolf 
was not disposed to give up its supper even then, 
and plunged at Hermann, rising on its hind legs, and 


snarling and gnashing its sharp teeth in a fearful 

The boy stood his ground manfully, and made 
vigorous defense with his stout knife, while little 
Gertrude clung to his frock, crying. Finally, he 
gave the beast a blow that disabled it. Then he 
struck another that quite killed it. 

Hermann cut off the great hairy ears of the 
monster and thrust them under his girdle, and then 
the two children shouldered their wood and marched 
toward home, as if nothing had happened. Out- 
side the forest they met their father, who, alarmed 
by their long absence, was coming in search of 
them. He bore a flaming torch in his hand, and 
by its light he saw that the boy's clothing was 
streaked with great red stains. 

'• What have you been doing? " asked he. 

" I have been killing a wolf," was the reply of 
the nine-year-old hero. 

"Killing a wolf!" exclaimed the father, still 
alarmed, and uncertain whether to believe him. 
" Not so fast, my boy. Where is the wolf ? " 

" Back in the forest, dead; but here are 
his ears. The beast attacked Gertie, and 
I killed him with my knife. This is all 
wolf-blood on my breast and arms." 

Billung clasped his children to his 
breast, murmuring a thankful prayer. 
The peril they had escaped was great, 
and the boy's heroism was the talk of 
the neighborhood for years. Nor did his 
courage, as he grew older, become less. 

Some four years after this, when Her- 
mann was about thirteen, as he was tend- 
ing his father's cattle in the open field 
one day, he saw a gay cavalcade of horse- 
men turn aside from the road and enter 
the field. The boy sprang to place him- 
self in their way, and cried out in a bold 
voice : 

"Go back! Only the road is yours : 
this field belongs to me." 

Their leader, a tall man with an im- 
posing mien, reined his horse and inquired, 
".\nd who may you be, my lad?" 

" i\Iy name is Hermann Billung. Yon- 
der is my father's homestead. This is our 
field, and you have no right here." 

" I have the right to go where I will," 
said the knight, shaking his lance threat- 
eningly. " Get out of the way, or you 
will be ridden over." 

But the boy stood his ground, and with 
flashing eyes turned on the cavalier, — 

" Right is right," he cried, "and you 
can not ride through this field without 
first riding over me." 
" What do you know about right, younker?" 
" I know that this is our field, and no Billung 
ever gives up his right." 

" But do you think it right to refuse to obey your 
emperor? I am Otho," and the horseman drew 
himself up with a kingly air. 

"You King Otho, the pride of Saxony?" cried 
Hermann, in astonishment. " But it can not be! 
Otho guards our rights — you would break them. 
That is not like the emperor. Father has often 
told me so." 

" 1 should like to see the father of so brave a 
boy; lead mc to him," said the emperor, kindly 
interest depicted in his earnest face. 

" The smoke that you may see above those 
bushes rises from our home. You will find my 
father there, but I can not leave these cows which 




he bade mc tend. But if you arc in truth the 
emperor, you will keep to the road, for Otho pro- 
tects our rights." 

So the courtly train turned from the field, leav- 
ing the brave boy unmolested to care for his cattle. 
Otho rode direct to the peasant's cottage, and when 
he had found the father, he said to him : 

"Your name is Hillung, and mine is Otho. I 
want to take your son to court with me, to educate 
him so that he may become my esquire. He will 
make a true man, and 1 have need of such." 

Biliung joyfully granted Otho's request. Her- 
mann was called in, and told of his good fortune. 
He put on his best clothes and rode away on a war- 
horse by the side of Otho, as proud as any boy 
could be. But this was not the last of Hermann. 

He grew to be a brave knight — -the bravest, in 
fact, at the emperor's court. He had a horse of his 
own now, and he wore cloth of gold and silver, 
with a long plume in his velvet cap, and a golden 
spur on his heel. When he went to war he dressed 
up in dark steel armor, and looked as grim and 
formidable as any of the old knights, though he 
was only twenty years old. 

One day, Otho sent his young favorite across the 
country to visit a great castle where a duke lived. 
It was miles away, and a dreary road, but Her- 
mann, accompanied by only a single esquire, set 
off with a light heart, singing a merry song. 

For two or three days all went well. The birds 
sang in the woods, his horse cantered briskly, and 
Hermann's heart was joyful. In the afternoon of 
the third day, the woods grew thicker and the road 
wilder, and just where it was the darkest and wild- 
est, he was startled by loud screams, and then he 
heard rough, fierce oaths, and the rush of many 
feet, and the clank of armor. 

He did not stop to count his enemies, but draw- 
ing his sword, spurred his horse forward right upon 
the scene. And such a scene it was ! A grace- 
ful and richly dressed lady, whose jewels seemed 

worth a monarch's ransom, was in the grasp of a 
savage-looking man, whose followers had already 
beaten her three attendants to the earth. There 
were nearly a score of tliem, rough, desperate-look- 
ing fellows, but Hermann did not hesitate. 

He was in their midst almost before they knew 
it, cutting and slashing away in terrible earnest. 
With his first blow he struck down tlie ruffian 
whose arms were around the lady. Then he 
turned upon the others. At first they were greatly 
scared, but when they saw there were only two to 
fight, they crowded around with a great clatter, 
and soon Hermann had his hands full. 

But he was very brave and very strong, though 
he was so young. He had unhorsed all the famous 
knights at Otho's court, and here were no knights, 
but robbers. He knew he should conquer, and 
conquer he did, though he got a wound that laid 
him by for more than a fortnight, but he himself 
slew eleven of the robbers outriglit. 

The lady took him to her father's castle, which 
was not distant, and there she tended him until he 
was able to mount his war-horse again. During his 
confinement he discovered that the castle was the 
ver)' one he had been journeying to, and that the 
lady was Duke Henry's daughter. On the last 
day of his stay he did the emperor's errand, and 
he also did another for himself, for when he rode 
away it was as the accepted suitor of beautiful 
Lady Adelaide. 

At their marriage, which occurred not long after- 
ward, Otho himself was present, with many of his 
princes, and the ceremony was a very grand one. 
At its conclusion the emperor bestowed upon his 
young friend a great dukedom. For thirty years 
he reigned as duke of Saxony, and then he died, 
but not until he performed many other gallant 
deeds, which we have no room to relate. You will 
find his name in all the old German histories, for 
Hermann the Brave was one of the noblest and 
most celebrated men of his time. 





By Mary Mapes Dodge. 

man's — halted. 

Chapter I. 


Jhe door of the study was closed, 
and only Nero was to be seen. 
He, poor dog, stood in the 
wide hall gazing wistfully at 
the knob, and pricking up 
his ears whenever sounds of 
movement in the room aroused 
his hope of being admitted. 
Suddenly he gave a yelp of 
delight. Somebody surely 
was approaching the door. 
The steps — they were a 
There was a soft, rolling sound, 
as if the master's chair had been drawn to the 
table ; next a rustling of paper ; a deep-voiced 
moan ; the rapid scratching of a quill pen ; then 
silence — silence — and poor Nero again stood at 

Any ordinary dog would have barked or pawed 
impatiently at the door. But Nero was not an 
ordinary dog. He knew that something unusual 
was going on — something that even he, the pro- 
tector and pet of the household, the frisky Master 
of Ceremonies, must not interfere with. But when 
the bell-pull within the room clicked sharply, and 
a faint tinkle came up from below, he flew eagerly 
to the head of the basement stair, and wagged his 
bushy tail with a steady, vigorous stroke, as though 
it were the crank of some unseen machine which 
slowly and surely would draw Liddy, the house- 
maid, up the stair-way. 

The bell rang again. The machine put on more 
steam. Still no Liddy. Could she be out ? Nero 
ran back to take an agonized glance at the motion- 
less knob, leaped frantically to the stair again — 
and, at that moment, the study door opened. 
There was a heavy tread ; the ecstatic Nero rushed 
in between a pair of dignified legs moving toward 
the great hall-door ; he spun wildly about for an 
instant, and then, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, 
settled down on the rug before the study lire. For 
there was not a soul in the room. 

Chapter II. 

The house is there still, so is Nero, now an hon- 
ored old dog, frisky only m his memories. But 
old as he is in teeth and muscle, he is hardly past 

middle-age in the wag of his still tDUshy tail, and is 
as young as ever in happy devotion to his master. 
Liddy, too, is down-stairs, promoted, but busy as 
in the days gone by ; and the voice of that very 
bell tinkled but an hour ago. 

Here is the same study ; some one within, and 
the door closed. Opposite, on the other side of 
the w'ide hall, is the parlor, its windows looking 
across piazza, sloping lawn, road-way, and field, 
straight out to the sparkling lake beyond. Back 
of the parlor is a sunny sitting-room, its bay- 
w'indow framing a pleasant view of flower-garden, 
apple-orchard, and grape-arbor — a few straggling 
bunches clinging to the almost leafless November 
vines. And within, throughout the house indeed, 
floats a sunny-shady combination of out-door 
air, with a faint, delightful odor of open wood-fires. 
What a quiet, home-like, beautiful place it is ! 

Let us look into the sitting-room. 

A boy, with his back toward the door, sitting, 
feet and all, upon the end of a big sofa, his bended 
knee tightly held between his arms, his head 
thrust forward earnestly — altogether, from the rear 
view, looking like a remarkable torso with a mod- 
ern jacket on — that 's Donald. On the other end 
of the sofa, a glowing face with bright brown hair 
waving liack from it, the chin held in two brownish 
little hands, and beneath that a mass of dark red 
merino, revealing in a meandering, drapery way 
that its wearer is half-kneeling, half-sitting — that 's 

I am obliged to confess it, these two inelegant 
objects on a very elegant piece of furniture are the 
hero and heroine of my story. 

Do not imagine, however, that Donald and 
Dorothy could not, if they chose to do so, stand 
before you comely and fair as any girl and boy in 
the land. It is merely by accident that we catch 
this first glimpse of them. They have been on that 
sofa in just those positions for at least five minutes, 
and, from present appearances, they intend to 
remain so until further notice. 

Dorothy is speaking, and Donald is — not exactly 
listening, but waiting for his turn to put in a word, 
thus forming what may be called a lull in the con- 
versation, for up to this point both have been 
speaking together. 

" It 's too much for anything, so it is ! I 'm 
going to ask Liddy about it. that 's what I 'm going 
to do, for she was almost ready to tell me the othei 
day, when Jack came in and made her mad." 




" Don't you do it ! " Donald's tone is severe, 
but still affectionate and confidential. " Don't you It 's the wrong way. 1 tell you. What did 
she get mad at ? " 

" Oh, nothing. Jack called her ' mess-mate ' or 
something, and she flared up. But, I tell you, 
I 'm just going to ask her right out what makes 
him act so." 

" Nonsense,'' said Donald. '• It 's (inly his 
sailor- ways, and besides- — -" 

"No, no. I don't mean Jack. I mean Uncle. 
I do believe he hates me ! " 

" Oh, Dorry ! Dorry ! " 

" Well, he does n't love me any more, anyway ! 
I know he 's good and all that, and I love him just 
as much as you do, Don, every bit, so you need n't 
be so dreadful astonished all in a minute." (Dorry 
was apt to be ungramniatical when excited.) "I 
love Uncle George as much as anybody in the 
world does, but that 's no reason why, «hene\er 
Aunt Kate is mentioned, he " 

" Yes, it is, Dot.. You ought to wait." 

"I //(I7V waited — why, Don" (and her manner 
grows tearful and tragic), "I 've waited nearly 
thirteen years ! " 

Here Don gives a quick, suddenly suppressed 
laugh, and a.sks her, " why she didn't say four- 
teen," and Dorothy tells him sharply that "he 
need n't talk — they 're pretty even on that score" 
(which is true enough), and that she really has been 
" longing and dying to know ever since she was 
a little, little bit of a girl, and who would n't ?" 

Poor Dorothy! She will "long to know" for 
many a day yet. And so will the good gentleman 


who now sits gazing at the fire in the study across 
the wide hall, his feet on the very rug upon which 
Nero settled himself on that eventful November 
day, exactly fourteen years ago. 

And so will good, kind Lydia, the housekeeper, 
and so will Jack, the sailor-coachman, at whom 
she is always " flaring up," as Dorothy says. 

Chapter III. 


Dorothy Reed was of a somewhat livelier 
temperament than Donald, and that, as she often 
could not but feel, gave her an advantage. Also, 
she was ahead of him in history, botany, and 
grammar. But Donald, though full of boyish 
spirit, was steadier, more self-possessed than 
Dorothy, and in algebra and physical geography 
he " left her nowhere," as the young lady herself 
would tersely confess when in a very good humor. 
But never were brother and sister better friends. 
" She 's first-rate," Don would say, confidentially, 
to some boon companion, " not a bit like a girl, 
you know — more like — well, no, there 's nothing 
tomboyish about her, but she 's spirited and never 
gets tired or sickish like other girls." And many 
a time Dorothy had declared to some choice confi- 
dential friend of the twining-arms sort, that Don- 
ald was "perfectly splendid! nicer than all the 
boys she had ever seen, put together." 

On one point they were fully united, and that 
was in their love for Uncle George, though of late 
their uncle had seemed always to be unconsciously 
making rough weather between them. 

This expression, "rough weather," is not original, 
but is borrowed from Jack, whom you soon shall 
know nearly as well as the two D's did. 

And "the two D's" is not original, either. 
That 's Liddy's. She called Donald and Dorothy 
"the two D's" for short, when they were not 
present, just as she invariably spoke of the master 
of the house, in his absence, as "Mr. G." There 
was not the slightest dis- 
respect in this. It was a 
way that had come upon 
her after she had learned 
her alphabet in niidtile life, 
and had stopped just at the 
point of knowing or guess- 
ing the first letter of a 
word or a name. Farther 
than that into the paths 
of learning, Liddy's pa- 
tience had failed to carry 
her. But the use of initials 
she felt was one of the 
short cuts that education 
afforded. Besides, the good 
soul knew secrets which, without her master's per- 
mission, nothing would tempt her to reveal. So, 
to speak of "Mr. G." or "the D's," had a con- 
fidential air of mystery about it that in some way 
was a great relief to her. 

Mr. George was known by his lady friends as "a 
confirmed bachelor, but a most excellent man," 




the " but " implying that every well-to-do gentle- 
man ought to marry, and the " excellent man " 
referring to the fact that ever since the children 
had been brought to him, fourteen years ago, two 
helpless little babies, he had given them more than 
a father's care. He was nearly fifty years of age, 
a tall, "iron-gray" gentleman, with the courtliest 
of manners and the warmest of hearts; yet he was, 
as Liddy described him to her cousins, the Crumps, 
" an unexpected kind o' person, Mr. G. was. 
Just when you made up your mind he was very 
stiff and dignified, his face would light up into 
such a beautiful glow ! And then, when you 
thought how nice, and hearty, and sociable he 
was, he would look so grave out of his eyes, and 
get so straight in the back that he seemed like a 
king in an ermine robe." 

When Liddy had compared a man to "a king 
in an ermine robe," she had expressed her utmost 
pitch of admiration. She had heard this expres- 
sion long ago in a camp-meeting discourse, and it 
seemed to her almost too grand a phrase for 
human use, unless one were speaking of Mr. 

And a king Mr. George was, in some ways — a 
king who ruled himself, and whose subjects — Mr. 
George's traits of character — were loyal to their 
sovereign. Yet on one point he did deserve to be 
otherwise compared. All difficulties that were 
under his power to control, he would bravely meet, 
but when anything troubled him which he could 
not remedy, — in fact, on occasions when he was per- 
plexed, worried, or unable to decide promptly upon 
a course of action, — he often was a changed being. 
Quick as a flash the beautiful, genial glow would 
vanish, the kingly ermine would drop off, and he 
could be likened only to one of the little silver owls 
that we see upon dinner-tables, quite grand and 
proper in bearing, but very peppery within, and 
liable to scatter the pepper freely when suddenly 

Poor Dorry ! It had been her sad experience 
to call forth this catastrophe very often of late, and 
in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes a mere 
gesture, even the tone of her voice, seemed to annoy 
her uncle. On one occasion, while he was pleas- 
antly explaining some public matter to Donald 
and herself, she laid her hand gently upon the 
back of his, by way of expressing her interest in 
the conversation, and his excited " Why did you 
do that?" made the poor girl jump from him in 

L}'dia, who was softly brightening the fire at 
that moment, saw it all, and saw, too, how quickly 
he recovered himself and spoke kindly to the 
child. But she muttered under her breath, as she 
went slowly down to the basement : 

" Poor Mr. G. 's gettin' worse of late, he is. I 
don't see as he ever will feel settled now. It 's 
amazin' puzzhn', it is." 

Yes, it was puzzling. And nobody better under- 
stood and pitied the kingly soul's perplexity than 
the good woman. Even Jack, the coachman, 
though he knew a good deal, had but a faint idea 
of what the poor gentleman suffered. 

On the day when we saw Donald and Dorothy 
perched on the sofa, Mr. Reed had been remark- 
ably changeful, and they had been puzzled and 
grieved by his manner toward Dorothy. He had 
been kind and irritable by turns, and finally, for 
some unaccountable reason, had sharply requested 
her to leave him, to "go away for mercy's sake," 
and then she had been recalled on some slight pre- 
text, and treated with extra kindness, only to be 
wounded the next moment by a look from her 
uncle that, as she afterward declared, " made her 
feel as if she had struck him." 

Donald, full of sympathy for Dorry, yet refusing 
to blame Uncle George without a fuller understand- 
ing, had followed his sister into the parlor, and 
there they had tried in vain to solve the mystery — 
for a mystery there evidently was. Dot was sure 
of it; and Donald, failing to get this "foolish 
notion," as he called it, from Dot's mind, had 
ended by secretly sharing it and reluctantly admit- 
ting to himself that Uncle George — kind, good 
Uncle George — really had not, of late, been very 
kind and good to Dorry. 

" He has n't been itgly,^'' thought Donald to 
himself, while Dorothy sat there, eagerly watching 
her brother's countenance, — " Uncle could n't be 
that. But he seems to love her one minute, and be 
half afraid of her the next — no, not exactly afraid 
of her, but afraid of his own thoughts. Some- 
thing troubles him. I wonder what the blazes it 
is ! May be " 

"Well?" exclaimed Dorry, impatiently, at last. 

" Well," repeated Don, in a different tone, — 
" the fact is, it is trying for you, Dorry, and I can't 
make it out." 

Meanwhile Lydia, down-stairs, was working her- 
self into what she called "a state" on this very 
matter. "It is n't Christian," she thought to 
herself, "though if ever a man was a true, good 
Christian, Mr. G. is — but he 's amazin' odd. 
The fact is, he does n't know his own mind in this 
business from one day to t' other, and he thinks me 
and Jack sees nothin' — Mercy! If here don't 
come them precious children ! " 

Surely enough, the precious children were on 
their way down the kitchen stairs. They did not 
go into that cheerful, well-scrubbed apartment, 
however, but trudged directly into the adjoining 
room, in which Liddy, guarded by the faithful old 




dog, Nero, was now seated, peeling apples. It 
had been fitted up for Liddy years ago when, from 
a simple housemaid, she was "promoted," as she 
said, " to have eyes to things and watch over the 

'• You may think it strange," she had said, grand- 
ly, that very ni<)niin<;, to Jack, looking around at 
the well-polished, old-fashioned furniture, and the 
still bright thrcc-ply carpet, " that I should have 
my setting-room down here, and my sleeping apart- 
ment upstairs, but so it is. The servants need 
watching more than the children, as you know, 
Mr. Jack, and I 'vc had to have eyes to things ever 
since the D's first come. Master Donald says I 
ought to call it ' having an eye,' but sakes ! what 
would one eye be in a house like this ? No, it 's 
eyes I want, both eyes, and more too, with the 
precious D's wild as young hawks, and Mr. G. as 
lie is of late, and the way things are." 

Liddy looked up uhcn Donald and Dorothy 
entered, with a " Sakes ! You 've not been fret- 
ting again. Miss Dorry ? " 

"No — not exactly fretting, Liddy: that is, not 
very much. We just came down to — to — Give 
me 'n apple ? " 

" Steady! St-e-a-dy !" cried Liddy, as after her 
hearty "help yourselves," the brother and sister 
made a simultaneous dash at the pan on her ample 
lap, playfully contesting for the largest. " One 
would think you were starving ! " 

"So we are, Liddy," said Dorothy, biting her 
apple as she spoke ; " we are starving for a story." 

"Yes!" echoed Donald, "a story. We 're 
bound to have it ! " 

" Hum ! " muttered Liddy, much flattered. 
" Do you know your lessons? " 

" Per-fectly ! " answered the D's, in one breath. 
■"We studied them right after Dr. Lane left." 

" Well," began Liddy, casting a furtive look at 
the red wooden clock on the mantel; " which story 
do you want ? N'ou 'vc heard 'cm all a score of 

"Oh, not that kind," said Dorothy, playfully 
motioning to her brother, for you see by this time 
she was quite cheerful again. "We want a cer- 
tain par-tic-ular story, don't we, Don ? " 

Instead of replying, Don took Dorry's out- 
stretched hand with nonsensical grace, and so 
dancing to the fire-place together in a sort of bur- 
lesque minuet, they brought back with them two 
little mahogany-and-hair-cloth foot-benches, plac- 
ing them at Lydia's feet. 

Ignoring the fact that these seats were absurdly 
low and small, the D's settled themselves upon 
them as comfortably as in the days gone by, when 
the benches had been of exactly the right size for 

them; and at the risk of upsetting the apples, pan 
and all, they leaned toward Liddy with an 
expressive " Now ! " 

All this had been accomplished so quickly that 
Liddy would have been quite taken by surprise 
had she not been used to their ways. 

" Bless your bright eyes!" she laughed, uneas- 
ily looking from one beaming face to the other, 
" you take one's breath away with your quick 
motions. And now what certain, special, wonder- 
ful kind of a story do you want ? " 

" Why, you know. Tell us all about it, Lydia," 
spoke Dorothy, sober in an instant. 

" Sakes ! Not again ? Well, where shall I 
begin ? " 

" Oh, at the very beginning," answered Donald ; 
and Dorothy's eager, expressive nod said the same 

"Well," began Liddy, "about fourteen years 
ago " 

" No, no, not there, please, but 'way, 'way back 
as far as you can remember; farther back than you 
ever told us before." 

" Well," and Lydia proceeded to select a fresh 
apple and peel it slowly and deliberately, " well, I 
was once a young chit of a girl, and I came to this 
house to live with your aunt Kate. She was n't any 
aunt then, not a bit of it, but a sweet, pretty, perky, 
lady-girl as ever was ; and she had " (here Lyddy 
looked sad, and uttered a low " Dear, dear! how 
strange it seems ! ") — " she had two splendid 
brothers, Mr. George Reed and Mr. Wolcott 
Reed (your papa, you know). Oh, she was the 
sweetest young lady you ever set eyes on. Well, 
they all lived here in this very house, — your grand- 
pa and grandma had gone to the better world a 
few years before, — and Master G. was sort of head 
of the family, you see, as the oldest son ought to 

Donald unconsciously sat more erect on his 
bench, and thrust his feet farther forward on the 

" Yes, Master G. was the head," Liddy went on, 
"but you would n't have known it, they were all 
so united and loving, like. Miss Kate, though 
kind of quick, was just too sweet and good for any- 
thing — 'the light of the house,' as the young 
master called her, and " 

"Oh, I do love so much to hear about Aunt 
Kate !" exclaimed Dorothy, her color brightening 
as she drew her bench up still closer to Liddy. 
Both of the apples were eaten by this time, .md the 
D's had forgotten to ask for more. '■^ Do wc look 
like her?" 

Merc Donald and Dorothy turned and looked 
full in Lydia's face, waiting for the answer. 

" Well, yes — and no, too. You 've her shining 




dark hair, Master Donald, and her way of step- 
pin' firm, but there is n't a single feature like her. 
And it 's so with you, Miss Dorry, not a feature 
just right for the likeness ; still you 've a some- 
thing, somehow — -somewhere — and yet I can't 
place it; it 's what I call a vanishin' likeness." 

At this the two D's lost their eager look and 
burst into a hearty laugh. 

" Hello, old Vanisher! " said Donald, making a 
sudden dive at Dorothy. 

"Hello, old Stiff-legs!" retorted Dorothy, 
laughing and pushing him away. 

Here old Nero roused himself, and growled a 

" That picture of your ma in your room, Master 
Donald," replied Lydia, "has certainly a good 
deal of your look, but I can't say from my own 
knowledge that it ever was a good likeness. It 
was sent over afterward, you know, and your ma 
never was here except once, when 1 was off to 
camp-meeting with Cousin Crump. Your pa used 
to go to see the young lady down at her home in 
New York, and after the wedding they went to 
Niagara water-falls, and after that to Europe. 
Seems to me this going out of your own country 's 
bad business for young couples who ought to settle 
dov/n and begin life." (Here Nero stood up, and 


low, rumbling, distant growl, as if protesting 
against some unwelcome intruder. 

"There, children, that 's sufficient!" said 
Liddy, with dignity. "Don't get tussling. It 
is n't gcntleman-and-lady-like. Now see how 
you 've tumbled your sister's hair. Master Donald, 
and Mr. G. 's so particular. Hear Nero, too ! 
.Sakes I it seems sometimes like a voice from the 
dead to hear him go that way when we 're talking 
of old times." 

"Keep still, old fellow!" cried Donald, play- 
fully. "Don't you see Liddy 's talking to us? 
Well, we look like our mamma, anyway — don't 
we, Liddy?" 

his growl grew more decided.) "Well, as I was 

saying Mercy on us ! If there is n't that man 

again ! " 

The last part of Lydia's sentence, almost 
drowned by Nero's barking, was addressed to the 
empty window; at least it seemed empty to the 
D's when they turned toward it. 

"Who? Where ?" shouted Dorothy. But Don- 
ald sprang up from the bench, and, followed by 
the noisy old Nero, ran out of the room, across the 
basement hall, and through the back-door, before 
Liddy had time to reply. 

"Who was it, Liddy?" asked Dorry. still look- 
ing toward the empty window, while Nero came 



sauntering back as though the matter that had 
lured him forth had not been worth the trouble of 
following up. 

"Oh, no one, dearie," said Lydin, carelessly; 
" that is, no one in particular. It 's just a man. 
Well, as 1 was going to say, your aunt Kate was n't 
only the light of the house, she was the heart of 
the house, too, the very heart. It was dreary 
enough after she went off to England, poor darling." 

" Yes, yes," urged Dorry, earnestly, at the same 
time wondering at her brother's hasty departure. 
" Go on, Liddy, that 's a dear. I can tell it all 
to Donald, you know." 

'' There is n't any more, Miss Dorry. That 's 
the end of the first part of the story. You know 
the second well enough, poor child, and sad 
enough it is." 

"Yes," said Dorry, in a low tone, "but tell me 
the rest of the beginning." 

" VVliy, what lio you mean. Miss Dorr)- ? There 's 
nothing else to tell, — that is, nothing that I got ear 
of. I suppose there were letters and so on; in fact, 
1 know there were, for many a time I brought 
Mr. George's mail in to him. That day, I took 
the letters and papers to Mr. G. in the library, — 
poor, lonely gentleman he looked! — and then 1 
went down to my kitchen fire (I was in the house- 
work then), and some minits after, when I 'd been 
putting on coal and poking it up bright, it kind 
o' struck me that master's bell had been ringing. 
Up 1 scampered, but when I reached the library, 
he was gone out and no one was there but Nero 
(yes, you, old doggie !), lying before the fire, as if 
he owned the house. And that 's the end of the 
first part, so far as 1 know." 

"Yes," insisted Dorothy; "but 1 want to hear 
more about what happened before that. I know 
about our poor papa dying abroad, and about tlie 
wreck, and how our mamma and " 

She could not go on. Often she could speak of 
all this without crying; but the poor girl had been 
strained and excited all tlie afternoon, and now, 
added to the sorrow that surged through her heart 
at the sudden thought of the parents whom she 
could not even remember, came the certainty that 
again she was to be disappointed. It was evident, 
from Lydia's resolute, though kindly face, that she 
did not mean to tell any more of tlie first half. 

The good woman smoothed Dorothy's soft hair 
gently, and spoke soothingly to her, begging her to 
be a good girl and not cry, and to remember what 
a bright, happy little miss she was, and what a 
beautiful home she had, and how young folk 
ought always to be laughing and skipping about, 

" Liddy ! " said Donald, suddenly appearing at 
the door. " Uncle wants you." 

Lydia, flushing, set down the pan, and hurriedly 
smoothing her apron, walked briskly out of the 

" He called me from the window — that 's why 
I staid," explained Donald, " and he told me to 
order John to hitch the horses to the big carriage. 
We 're to get ready for a drive. And then he 
asked me where you were, and when I told him, 
he said : ' Send Lydia here, at once.'" 

" Was Uncle very angry, Donald ? " asked Dorry, 
wiping her eyes. 

" Oh, no. At first he seemed sorry, and 1 
think he got up the drive just to give you pleasure, 
Dorry. He wanted to sec me about something, 
and then he asked more about our visit to Liddy's 
room, and I told him she was only telling us a true 
story about him and papa, and — and that 's when 
he sent me for Liddy, before 1 could get out 
another word. Don't cry any more. Dot, — please 
don't. Go put on your things, and we '11 have a 
gay old drive with Uncle. 1 wont take the pony 
this time." 

"Oh, do!" coaxed Dorry, faintly, for in her 
heart she meant, "Oh, don't!" It was good in 
Donald, she knew, to be willing to give up his 
pony-ride, and take a seat in the stately carriage 
instead of cantering alongside, and she disliked to 
rob him of the pleasure. But to-day her heart 
was lonely; Uncle had been "queer," and life 
looked so dark to her in consequence, that to have 
Donald on the same seat with her would be a great 

" No," said Don. " Some day, soon, you and 
I '11 take our ponies, and go off together for a good 
run ; but, to-day, 1 'd rather go with you in the 
carriage. Dot," — and that settled it. 

She ran to put on her hat and bright warm 
woolen wrap, for it was early November, and 
beginning to be chilly. The carriage rolled to the 
door ; Uncle George, grave but kind, met her, 
handed her in as though she were a little duchess, 
and then said : 

"Now, Dorothy, who shall go with us, to-day? 
Cora Danby or Josie ? You may call for any one 
you choose." 

" Oh, may I, Uncle ? Thank you ! Then we '11 
go for Josie, please." 

Her troubles were forgotten; Uncle smiled; Don- 
ald beside her, and Josephine Manning going with 
them ; the afternoon Isright and glowing. Things 
were not so bad, after all. 

"Drive to Mr. Manning's, John," said Mr. Reed, 
as Jack, closing the carriage-door, climbed up to 
the box in a way that reminded one of a sailor 
starting to mount into a ship's rigging. 

" Aye, aye, Cap'n," said Jack, and they were 




Chapter IV. 


JOSIE Manning was not at home, and so the 
party decided to drive on without company. 

It was a beautiful autumnal day, and the modest 
little lake-side village, which, in deference to its 
shy ways, we shall call Nestletown, did its best to 
show its appreciation of the weather. Its windows 
lighted up brilliantly in the slanting sunlight, and 
its two spires. Baptist and Methodist, reaching up 
through the yellow foliage, piously rivaled each 
other in raising their shining points to the sky. 
The roads were remarkably fine at that time ; yet 
it seemed that almost the only persons who, on 
this special afternoon, cared to drive out and enjoy 
them were our friends in the open carriage. 

The fine old equipage rolled along at first with- 
out a sound beyond the whir of its wheels and the 
regular quadruple beat of the horses' hoofs; and 
everj'thing appeared to be very placid and quiet. 
But how many interests were represented, and how 
different they were ! 

First, the horses : While vaguely wishing Jack 
would loosen his hold, and that the hard iron some- 
thing in their mouths would snap in two and 
relieve them, they were enjoying their own speed, 
taking in great draughts of fine air, keeping their 
eyes open and their ears ready for any startling 
thing that might leap from the rustling bushes 
along the drive, or from the shadows of the road- 
side trees, and longing in an elegant, well-fed way 
for the plentiful supper that awaited them at home. 
Next was the group of little belated insects that, 
tempted by the glittering sunlight, happened to go 
along, alighting now on the carriage, now on Jack, 
and now on the horses. Not being horse-flies, 
they were not even noticed by the span, — yet they 
had business of their own, whatever it could have 
been so late in the season, and were briskly attend- 
ing to it. Next, there was Jack, — poor sailor 
Jack, — sitting upright, soberly dressed in snug- 
fitting clothes, and a high black stove-pipe hat, 
when at heart he longed to have on his tarpaulin 
and swagger about on his sea-legs again. His only 
consolation was to feel the carriage roll and pitch 
over the few uneven places along the road, to pull 
at his " tiller-ropes," as he called the reins, and 
" guide the craft as trim " as he could. For Jack, 
though honest coachman now (for reasons which 
you shall know before long) was a sailor at heart, 
and clung to his old ways as far as his present situ- 
ation would allow. At this very moment he was 
wondering at his own weakness " in turning him- 
self into a miserable land-lubber, all for love of 
the cap'n and the two little middies." Meantime, 
Donald was divided between a score of bov- 

thoughts on one side, and his real manly interest 
in Dorothy, whose lot seemed to him decidedly less 
pleasant than his own. Dorry was quietly enjoying 
the change from keen grief to its absence, and a 
sense of security in being so near Uncle and 
Donald. And the uncle — what shall I say of 
him ? Shall I describe only the stately form being 
borne with them through the yellow afternoon 
light, the iron-gray hair, the kindly face? — or 
shall 1 tell you of the lately happy, but now anx- 
ious, troubled man, who within a few days had 
been made to feel it possible that the dearest thing 
he had on earth might soon be his no longer. 

" Oh, Uncle," said Dorry, suddenly, " I forgot to 
tell you something." 

" You don't say so ! " exclaimed Mr. George, in 
playful astonishment, a quick smile rising to his 
lips, and his eyes full of pleasant inquiry. " What 
did my little maid forget to tell me ? " 

"Why, about the man on the croquet-ground. 
I was practicing a roquet-shot, and before I knew 
it, he was close by me, a great tall, lanky man, 
calling me ' Sis' and " 

" The rascal ! " exclaimed Uncle George, grow- 
ing red and angry in a moment. " What business 
had you to " 

" I did n't. Uncle, 1 did n't. I 'm too old to be 
called ' Sis,' and he acted just as if I ought to 
know him and be real pleasant. I would n't have 
a word to say to him, but just turned around and 
ran to look for Donald. Did n't I, Don ? " 

" Yes," said Donald, but before he said it he 
had scowled, and nodded to his uncle, slyly, as he 
thought, but his sister's eyes were keen. 

" 1 declare it 's too bad ! " broke forth Dorry, im- 
petuously. " Everybody gets mad at me for noth- 
ing, and makes signs and everything ! " and with 
this incoherent speech Dorry began to pout — yes, 
actually to pout, the brave, good Dorry, who 
usually was sunny and glad, " the light of the 
house," as her aunt Kate had been before her! 
Donald stared at her in astonishment. 

At this moment, one of the horses received a cut 
which he certainly did not deserve, but otherwise all 
was quiet on the coachman's box. No one looking 
up at that placid, well-dressed back would have 
dreamed of the South-Sea tempest raging under 
the well-padded and doubly buttoned coat. 

"Dorothy," said her uncle, with a straiige trem- 
bling in his voice, "try to control yourself. I do not 
blame you, my child. John, you may drive toward 

Poor Dorry stifled her rising sobs as well as she 
could, and, sitting upright, drew as far from her 
uncle as the width of the seat would allow. But 
after a while, sending a sidelong glance in his direc- 
tion, she edged slowly back again, and timidly 




leaned her head upon his shoulder. In a moment 
his arm was about her, and she looked up saucily, 
with eyes sparkling through her tears. 

" April weather to-day, is n't it, Don ? " said 
Uncle. Don laughed. The uncle laughed, 
though not so cheerily as Don, and even Jack 
chuckled softly to himself to think that " all was 
well again abaft." 

"Spoiled child!" said Uncle George, patting 
her gently. But his heart was full of a wild terror, 
and he reproached himself for many things, chief 
among which was that he had made it possible for 
the idolized little girl beside him to know a 
moment's sorrow. 

" 1 must be more watchful after this," he said 
to himself, " and more even. 1 have acted like a 
brute to-day: what wonder the little maid is upset. 
But that rascal ! I shall have to warn the children, 
though it 's an ugly business. Donald," said he 
aloud, and with great dignity, " come into the 
library after supper, both of you. " 

" Yes, sir," said Donald, respectfully. 

And as the dear home-road came in 
sight, the horses quickened their already 
brisk pace, the party leaned back luxuri- 
ously and gave themselves up to enjoy- 
ment of the clear air, the changing road- 

side, and the glories of the western sky, now ablaze 
with the setting sun. 

No one excepting Jack saw a tall, lank figure 
disappearing among the shrubbery as the carriage 
rumbled down the avenue that led to the house. 

"Look to windward, Cap'n!" whispered Jack, 
mysteriously, to Mr. George, while Donald was 
gallantly assisting Dorothy from the carriage ; 
"there's mischief in the air." 

"What now, John.''" asked Mr. George, rather 

"A queer craft 'sjust hove to, sir, in the ever- 
green bushes as we came in," mumbled Jack, al- 
most under his breath, while pretending to screw 
the handle of his whip. 

Mr. George scowled. " Is he there now ? " 

"Can't say, sir." 

"Very well; probably it is some one waiting 
to see me." And Mr. George, with a pleasant but: 
decisive, "run in, youngsters," as Liddy opened the 
wide hall-door, walked briskly down the carriage- 

When the door closed, he turned into the 

(To he continued.) 






Bv Thomas Dunn English. 

Babette, the peasant maiden, 
The guileless, graceful child, 

To gather nuts and berries, 
Went to the copsewood wild. 

And glancing in the fountain. 
Beneath the shadows brown, 

She saw her comely features 
And russet-linsey gown. 

" Fine birds come from fine feathers," 
The little maiden said — 

" Had I a crown of rubies 
To wear upon my head; 

"If this poor gown were silken, 
And I among the girls 
Had maidens four to serve me. 
And a necklace made of pearls ; 

■" And 1 had silver slippers 
Upon these little feet, 
A prince would come to woo me, 
And call me fair and sweet." 

Then suddenly before her 
A wounded dove was seen. 

With drops of blood down falling 
Upon the leaves of green. 

It trembled when she touched it. 
But had no power to fly ; 

And in her face looked upward 
With scared and piteous eye. 

She washed the red drops gently, 
That started from the wound. 

And the weary bird lay quiet. 
As though content it found. 

Then when her hand was opened. 

It made a plaintive coo. 
And rising slowly upward, 

Far in the distance flew. 

Then on the maiden wandered 

Till, by a hazel there. 
Escaped from cruel hunters, 

She saw a panting hare. 

Her words of loving kindness 

It did not seem to hear. 
Till from her quivering eyelids 

Dropped on it many a tear. 

When lo ! it rose and trembled, 

Its eyes grew full of light. 
And through the briers and hazels 

It bounded out of sight. 

And throbbed the maiden's bosom 
With pleasing, painful start. 

And happy thrills of gladness 
Made music in her heart. 

When lo ! on purple pinions, 
A flock of doves there came ; 

The first one bore a ruby, 
And each one had the same. 

And still came flying, flying, 
The doves on pinions fleet ; 

And rubies there on rubies 
They laid before her feet. 

And they made her a crown of rubies, 

Of rubies bright and red. 
And they made her a crown of rubies. 

And placed it on her head. 

And next of hares, a hundred 
Came from the North and South, 

And each in coming carried 
A great pearl in his mouth. 

And still came running, running. 

More hares, with motion fleet, 
And pearls, in countless number. 
They laid before her feet. 

And they made her a lovely necklace 

Of pearls without a speck. 
And they made her a lovely necklace 

And placed it on her neck. 

Was it the poor dove's Ufe-blood 
That now in rubies burned ? 

And from Babette's kind weeping 
Had tears to pearls 'oeen turned ? 

And then the doves flew over. 
And cooed with voices sweet, 

And a pair of silvern slippers 
She found upon her feet. 

And then the hares ran round Tier, 
.And her skin grew white as milk, 

And her gown of russet-linsey 
W'as changed to one of silk. 




And lo! there came four maidens, 

To wait on her, forsooth ! 
Simplicity, and Pity, 

And Innocence, and Truth. 

And the dove became a fairy. 
And touched her with her wand; 

And the hare became Prince Channing, 
And he was young and fond. 

Vol. IX.— 8. 

And a train of lords and ladies. 

The little maiden met; 
And the Prince, he walked beside her. 

The downcast-eyed Babette. 

And never in the copsewood 
Was the little maiden seen. 

For she dwells all time in Elf-land, 
As the good King Charming's queen. 




^k/ fA< ro (o'l,L.E;c^<,3ii\ 
nrJfa ■toI.D M£( Pot^ To cjo to CcHOot 




■1 1 

. B - C 

Bv Washington Gladden. 

ELL, sir, I 
am sorry ; 
but I 've 
done the 
best I could 
for you." 

It is the 
of the night 
—' express on 
the East- 
em Railroad 
who is speak- 
ing ; and the 
passenger, to 
whom his remark is ad- 
dressed, stands with watch 
in hand, near the door of 
the car, as the train draws into the Boston station. 
" I do not doubt it," is the answer. " You can 

not be blamed for the delay. The other train must 
have left the Western station already." 

" Undoubtedly ; the time is past, and they always 
start on time." 

" And there is no train that connects through to 
Cincinnati before to-morrow morning?" 

"No!" " Well, that settles it. Thank you." 

Mr. Haliburton Todd steps down from the plat- 
form of the car, and walks slowly past the row of 
beckoning and shouting hackmen. He is too good 
a philosopher to be angry with the freshet that 
delayed the train, but there is a shade of disap- 
pointment on his face, and a trace of moisture in 
his eye. He is a wholesome-looking man of fort)'- 
five, with grayish hair and beard, blue eyes, and 
a ruddy countenance. Probably he is never much 
given to grinning, but just now his face is unusually- 
grave ; nevertheless, it is a kind face ; under its 
sober mask there is a world of good nature. In 
short, he is just the sort of man that a shrewd girl 




of twelve would pick out for an uncle. If any one 
thinks that is not high praise, I should like to have 
him try his hand at commendation. 

There are, indeed, quite a number of boys and 
girls to whom Uncle Hal is both a saint and a 
hero. At that Christmas party, in the home of 
his sister in the Western city to which he has been 
hurrying, these boys and girls are to be assembled. 
All the married brothers and sisters, with their 
families, will be there. But it is of no use now for 
him to tr)- to join them. The feast will be ended, 
and the circle will be broken, before he can reach 
Cincinnati. So he strolls out of the station and 
up the street. No, he will not take a hack nor a 
horse-car ; happy people may consent to be car- 
ried ; those whose minds are troubled would better 
go afoot. He will walk off his disappointment. 

He trudges along the narrow streets ; the drays 
and the express wagons, laden with all sorts of 
boxes and parcels, are clattering to and fro ; por- 
ters, large and small, arc running with bundles, big 
and little ; the shops are crowded with eager cus- 
tomers. Mr. Haliburton Todd is too good a man 
to be dismal long in the midst of a scene like this. 
" What hosts of people," he says to himself, " are 
thinking and working with all their might to-day to 
make other people happy to-morrow ! And how 
happy they all are themsehes, to-day ! We always 
say that Christmas is the happiest day in the year ; 
but is it ? Is n't it the day before Christmas ? " 

So thinking, he pauses at the window of a small 
print-shop, when his attention is caught by the 
voices of two children, standing in the hall at the 
foot of the stairs leading to the stories above. On 
the sign beside the door-way he reads, " Jackman 
& Company, Manufacturers of Ladies' L'nderwear." 

The children are a girl of twelve and a boy of 
ten, neatly but plainly dressed ; a troubled look is 
on their bright faces. 

"How much. Ruby?" asks the boy. 

"Only seven dollars," answers the girl, choking 
back a sob. " There were four dozen of the night- 
dresses, you know, and the price was two dollars 
a dozen ; but the man said that some of them were 
not well made, so he kept back a dollar." 

"The man lied,"says Ben, "and I '11 go up and 
tell him so." 

"Oh, no," answers Ruby; "that would n't do 
any good. He would n't mind you, and he might 
not give us any more work. But the work was well 
done, if we did help ; for you run the machine 
beautifully, and Mamma says that my button-holes 
are every bit as good as hers. Just think of it ! 
Only seven dollars for two weeks' hard work of all 
three of us ! " 

"We can't have the turkey," says Ben, sadly. 

" Oh, no. I found a nice young one down at 

the comer store that we could get for a dollar and 
a half, but we must lay by two dollars for the rent, 
you know ; and there 'II be coal to buy next week. 
1 'm sure Mamma will think we can't afford it." 

" Come on, then," says Ben, bestowing a farewell 
kick upon the iron sign of Jackman & Company. 

.Mr. Haliburton Todd has forgotten all about 
his own disappointment in listening to the more 
serious trouble of these two children. As they 
walk up the street, he follows them closely, trying 
to imagine the story of their lives. They stop now 
and then for a moment to look into the windows 
of the toy-stores, and to admire the sweet wonders 
of the confectioners, but they do not tarry long. 
Presently, the eyes of Mr. Todd are caught by a 
large theater-bill, announcing the Oratorio of the 
Messiah, at Music Hall, Tuesday evening, Decem- 
ber 24, by the Handel and Haydn Society. Mr. 
Lang is to play the great organ. Theodore 
Thomas's orchestra is to assist, and the soloists are 
Miss Thursby and Miss Cary, and Mr. Whitney 
and Mr. Sims Reeves. 

" Correct ! " says Mr. Haliburton Todd, aloud. 
He knows now what he will do with the coming 
evening. It is long since his passion for music has 
been promised such a gratification. 

While he pauses, he notes that Ruby and Ben 
are scanning with eager eyes the same bill-board. 
" Rather remarkable children," he says to himself, 
" to care for oratorio. If it were a minstrel show, 
I should n't wonder." 

" Would n't I like to go?" says Ruby. 

" Would n't I?" echoes Ben, with a low whistle. 

"Don't you remember," says the girl, "the 
night Papa and Mamma took us to hear Nilsson? 
Miss Cary was there, you know, and she sang this: 

" ' Birds of the night that softly call, 

Winds in the night strangely sigh.' " 

It is a sweet and symjiathetic voice that croons 
the first strain of Sullivan's lullaby. 

"1 remember it," says Ben. "Mamma used 
to sing it afterward, pretty near as well as she did. 
And don't you remember that French chap that 
played the violin ? Blue Tom, they called him, 
or some such name." 

" Vt£!/.v/f>i!ps," laughs Ruby, who knows a liltle 

" Yes, that 's it. But could n't he make the old 
fiddle dance, though!" And the boy tilts his 
basket against his shoulder, and executes upon it 
an imaginar)' roulade with an imaginary bow. 
" We used to have good times at home, did n't 
we — when Papa played the violin and Mamma 
the piano?" Ben goes on. 

" Don't ! " pleads Ruby, turning, with a great sob, 
from the bright promise of the bill-board. 




The two children walk on in silence for a few 
moments, — Mr. Haliburton Todd still close behind 
them. Ruby has resolutely dried her tears, but 
her thoughts are still with the great singers, and 
the voice of the wonderful Swede is ringing through 
her memory, for presently Mr. Todd hears her 
singing low ; 

"Angels ever bright and fair, 
Take, oh, take me to your care! " 

" Well, my child," he says, in a low tone, " I 
don't think that angels are apt to have gray hairs 
in their whiskers, nor to wear ulsters ; but there 's 
an old fellow about my size who would like to be 
an angel just now for your sake." 

While he is talking thus to himself, the children 
turn into the hall of a tenement house. Mr. Hali- 
burton Todd glances after them, and sees them 
enter a room on the first landing. He walks on 
a few steps slowly, hesitates, then quickly turns 
back. In a moment he is knocking at the door 
which had been opened for the children. The 
knock is answered by the boy. 

" I beg your pardon, my little man," says Mr. 
Todd. " I am a stranger to you ; but I should like 
to see your mother if she is not engaged." 

" Come in, sir," says a voice within. It is the 
voice of a lady. Her face is pale and anxious, but 
her manner is quiet and self-possessed. 

" It is a curious errand that brings me, madam," 
says Mr. Haliburton Todd ; " but I trust you will 
pardon my boldness and grant my request. These 
children of yours chanced to be standing with me 
in front of the same placard, announcing the ora- 
torio to-night ; and I heard enough of what they 
said to know that they have a rare appreciation of 
good music. I have come in to see if you will 
let me take them to the Music Hall, this evening." 

"Oh, Mamma ! " cries Ben. 

Ruby's eyes plead, but the mother's face is 
grave. "Your offer is extremely kind, sir," she 
says at length, slowly; "and the thing you propose 
would give my children great pleasure; but " 

" You do not know me," Mr. Todd supplies. 
" That is true ; and of course a wise mother would 
not commit her children to the care of an entire 
stranger. Here 's my card, — ' Todd & Templcton, 
Mattawamkeag, Maine,' — but that proves noth- 
ing. However, I 'm not going to give it up so. 
Let me see ; I wonder if I know anybody that you 
know in this big city. Who is your minister ? " 

" We attend, at present, St. Matthew's Church, 
of which Mr. Brown is rector." 

"What is his first name?" "John, I think." 

"John Robinson Brown?" 

"Yes; that is the name." 

" Cor-rect ! " ejaculates Mr. Todd, triumphantly. 

with a distinct hyphen between the two syllables 
of his favorite interjection ; "that fixes it. What 
luck this is ! I know your minister perfectly. He 
has been up in our woods fishing every summer 
for five years, and we are the best of friends. Can 
you tell me his residence ? " 

" I know," cries Ben. " He lives next door to 
the church, on Chaucer street." 

" All right. Let the boy run up to his house 
after dinner, and see whether Mr. Brown indorses 
me. I '11 drop in on him this morning. If he .says 
so, you '11 let the children go with me to-night? " 

" I know no reason," answers the mother, "why 
they may not go. You are very kind." 

" Kind to myself, that 's all. But 1 shall be 
obliged to ask your name, madam." 

" Johnson." 

" Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I will call for the 
children at half-past seven. Good-morning ! " 

Mr. Haliburton Todd bows himself out with a 
beaming face, and leaves sunshine behind him. 
He pauses a moment on the landing. The door 
of the room adjoining the Johnsons' stands open, 
and he observes that the room is vacant. He steps 
in and finds a glazier setting a pane of glass. It is 
a pleasant room, with an open fire-place ; the rear 
parlor-chamber of an old-fashioned house, and it 
has been newly papered and painted. It com- 
municates with the sitting-room where the children 
and their mother live. 

" Is this room rented ? " he asks the glazier. 

" Guess not." 

" Where is the agent ? " 

" Number seven, Court street." 

"Thank you!" Mr. Haliburton Todd glances 
around the room again, nods decisively, and hurries 
down the stairs. 

What becomes of him for the next hour we will 
not inquire. A man is entitled to have a little 
time to himself, and it is not polite, even in stories, 
to be prying into all the doings of our neighbors. 

The next glimpse we get of him, he is sitting in 
the study of the rector of St. Matthew's, explain- 
ing to that gentleman what he wishes to do for 
these two little parishioners of his. 

"Just like you," cries the minister. " But who 
are the children ? " 

" Their name is Johnson, and they live in a tene- 
ment house on Denison street, number forty-five." 

"Ah, yes. Their father was the master of a 
bark in the African trade, and he was lost on 
the west coast a year and a half ago. Nothing 
was ever known of his fate, excepting that a portion 
of the vessel bearing its name, 'Ruby,' was washed 
ashore, somewhere in Angola, I think. They had 
a home of their own, bought in flush times, and 
mortgaged for half its value, but in the shrinkage 

A X A N G li L I N A N U L S T E R . 


cvcrythinjj was swept away. They have lived in 
this tenement now for nearly a year, supporting 
themselves by sewing. I suspect they are poor 
enough, but they are thoroughly independent; it 
is hard to get a chance to do anything for them. 
You seem to have outflanked them." 

"Oh, no; I 'm not much of a strategist; I 
moved on their works, and captured them. It 's 
my selfishness; I want to hear Thursby and Cary 
with those cliildren's ears to-night, that 's all. And 
if you will kindly write a little note, assuring the 
mother that I will not eat her children, the boy 
will call for it. And now, good-morning. I shall 
see you next summer in the woods." 

The rector presses his friend to tarry, but he 
pleads business, and hurries away. 

Now he mysteriously disappears again. After 
a few hours we find him seated before the grate, 
in his cozy room at the Parker House ; the tele- 
gram has gone to Cincinnati with the bad news 
that he is not coming ; the oratorio tickets have 
been purchased ; dinner has been eaten ; there is 
time for rest, and he is writing a few letters to 
those nephews and nieces who know-, by this time, 
to their great grief, that they will not see Uncle 
Hal to-morrow. 

Meantime, the hours have passed cheerily at the 
little room of the Johnsons, on Dcnison street ; 
for, though the kindness of their unknown friend 
could not heal the hurt caused by the hardness of 
their greedy employer, it has helped them to bear 
it. Ben has brought from the rector an enthusias- 
tic note about Mr. Todd, and the children have 
waited in delighted anticipation of the evening. 
Promptly, at half-past seven, the step of their 
friend is on the stair, and his knock at the door. 

"Come in, sir!" says Ben. It is a very differ- 
ent \-oicc from that of the boy who was talking at 
Jackman & Company's entrance a few hours ago. 

" This has been a day of great expectations 
here," says Ben's mother. " I do not know what 
could have been promised the children that would 
iiavc pleased them more. Of music they have had 
a passionate love from infancy, and they have n't 
heard much lately." 

"Well, they shall have to-night the best that 
Boston affords," says Mr. Todd. "Now, you 
must tell me your name, my boy. We want a 
good understanding before we start." 

" Ben, sir, is what my mother calls me." 

"Ben Johnson, eh? A first-class name, and a 
famous one. Correct ! " laughs Mr. Todd. "And 
now, will the little lady tell me her name?" 

" Ruby, sir, is all there is of it," answers the 

"Well, Ruby," says Mr. Todd, " your name is 
like the boarder's coffee: it is good enough what 

there is of it, and there 's enough of it, such as it 
is. Now, you want to know what to call me. My 
name's Uncle Hal. That's what a lot of boys 
and girls out West would have been calling me to- 
morrow if I had n't missed the train ; and if you '11 
just let me play, to-night, that I 'm your uncle, I 
shall have a great deal better time." 

So they go off merrily. 

Music Hall is packed from floor to topmost gal- 
lery. On either side of the great organ rise the 
ranks of the chorus, eight hundred singers ; the 
orchestra is massed in front ; the soloists arc just 
entering, to take their places at the left of the 

" There 's Miss Cary ! " cries Ruby, eagerly. 

Mr. Todd points out to the children the other 
singers whom they do not know, and, while he is 
speaking, the click of Mr. Zerrahn's baton is 
heard, the musicians of the orchestra lift their 
instruments, and the glorious strains of the over- 
ture burst upon the ears of the wondering children. 

But no wise historian will try to tell about this 
evening's music, nor how Ruby and Ben enjoy it. 
More than once, in the rush of the great choruses, 
Ben finds himself catching his breath, and there is 
a rosy spot all the while on Ruby's cheek and 
a dazzling brightness in her eye. Mr. Todd 
watches them, momently; he listens, as he said, 
with their ears as well as his own, and finds his 
own pleasure trebled by their keen enjoyment. 

" Oh, Mamma," says Ben, as she tucks him into 
bed, " it seemed, some of the time, as if I was so 
full that I could n't hold another bit. When Miss 
Thursby sang that song — you remember, Ruby. 
What was it ? " 

" ' I know that my Redeemer liveth,'" answers 

" Yes; that 's the one; — when she sang that, I 
thought my heart would stop beating. " 

" But what I liked best," says Ruby, true to her 
old love, " was one Miss Cary sang about the Sav- 
iour, ' He was despised.' " 

" It was all very beautiful, I know, my darlings," 
answers the mother; "but you must forget it now, 
as soon as you can, for it is late." 

The next morning. Ruby is wakened by the stir- 
ringof her mother. "Oh, Mamma," she says, softly, 
putting her arms about her mother's neck, " 1 had 
a beautiful dream last night, and I must tell it to 
you before you get up. I dreamed that Miss 
Tliursby was standing on a high rock on the sea- 
shore, singing that song, ' I know that my Re- 
deemer liveth ' ; and when she came to that part, 
' In the latter day he shall stand upon the earth,' 
I thought that dear Papa rose right up out of the 
sea, and walked on the water to the shore ; and 
that Mr. Todd took him by the hand and led him 

I lO 



up to US ; and just as he flew toward us, and 
caught you in his arms, I woke up." 

The desolate mother kisses the daughter with 
tears, but can not answer. Beside that dream the 
dark and stern reahty is hard to look upon. Yet, 
somehow, the child's heart clings to the comfort of 
the dream. 

Presently her eyes are caught by an unwonted 
display of colors on a chair beside the bed. " Oh, 
what are these ? " she cries, leaping to her feet. 

"They are yours, my daughter." 

" Look here, Ben ! Where did they come from. 
Mamma ? M-m-y ! Oh, look ! look ! And here 
are yours, Ben ! " 

By this time the drowsy boy is wide awake, and 
he pounces with a shout upon the treasures heaped 
on his own chair, and gathers them into his bed. 
A book and a nice silk handkerchief for each of 
the children ; an elegant morocco work-box stocked 
with all sorts of useful things for Ruby, and a com- 
plete little tool-chest for Ben ; the Christmas St. 
Nicholas for both, with a receipt for a year's sub- 
scription, and a nice box of sweetmeats to divide 
between them, — these are the beautiful and mys- 
terious gifts. 

" Who brought them, Mamma?" they cry, with 
one voice. 

"Your friend, Mr. Todd. He had two packages 
concealed under his coat, when he came for you 
last night ; and when he rose to go I found them 
on the floor beside his chair, one marked, ' For the 
Girl,' and the other, ' For the Boy ! ' " 

" What makes him do such things?" asks Ben, 

"'Good-will,' I think," answers his mother. 
" He seems to be one of those men of good-will 
of whom the angels sang." 

"Anyhow, I 'd like to hug him," says the 
impetuous Ben. "Did he say he would come and 
see us again ? " 

" Perhaps he will, in the course of the day. He 
said that he should not return to Maine until the 
evening train." 

Suddenly Ruby drops her treasures and flings 
her arms again about her mother's neck. "You 
blessed Mamma!" she cries, tenderly, "you 've 
got nothing at all. Why did n't some of the 
good-willers think of you ? " 

"Perhaps they will, before night," answers the 
mother, speaking cheerfully, and smiling faintly. 
" But whether they do or not, it makes the day a 
great deal happier to me that my children have 
found so good a friend." 

It is a merry morning with Ruby and Ben. The 
inspection of their boxes, and the examination of 
their books, make the time pass quickly. 

" Somebody 's moving into the next room," says 

Ben, coming in from an errand. " I saw a man 
carrying in a table and some chairs. Queer time 
to move, I should think." 

"They are going to keep Christmas, at any 
rate," said Ruby ; " for I saw them, a little while 
ago, bringing up a great pile of greens." 

" P'r'aps they 've hired the reindeer-team to 
move their goods," says Ben. 

" Then," answers his mother, "they ought to 
have come down the chimney instead of up the 
stairs. " 

So they have their little jokes about their new 
neighbors ; but the children have moved once 
themselves, and they are too polite to make use of 
the opportunity afforded by moving-day to take an 
inventory of a neighbor's goods. 

They are to have a late dinner. The turkey, 
hankered after by Ben, is not for them to-day ; but 
a nice chicken is roasting in the oven, and a few 
oranges and nuts will give them an unwonted 
dessert. While they wait for dinner, the children 
beseech their mother to read to them the Christmas 
story in St. Nichol.\S. " It means so much 
more when you read," says Ben, " than it does 
when I read." 

So they gather by the window ; the mother in 
the arm-chair, on one arm of which Ben roosts, 
with his cheek against his mother's — Ruby sitting 
opposite. It is a pretty group, and the face of 
many a passer-by lights up with pleasure as his eye 
chances to fall upon it. 

It is now a little past one o'clock, and Mr. Hali- 
burton Todd, sauntering forth from his comfortable 
quarters at Parker's, makes his way along Tremont 
street, in the direction of Court. He is going 
nowhere in particular, but he thinks that a little 
walk will sharpen his appetite for dinner. When 
he approaches Scollay's Square, his eye lights on 
a man standing uncertainly upon a corner, and 
looking wistfully up and down the streets. The 
face has a familiar look, and as he draws a little 
nearer, Mr. Todd makes a sudden rush for the 
puzzled wayfarer. 

"Hello, Brad!" he shouts, grasping the man 
by the shoulders. 

"Hello!" the other answers, coolly, drawing 
back a little; then, rushing forward: "Bless my 
eyes! Is this Hal Todd?" 

" Nobody else, old fellow ! But how on earth 
did I ever know you ? Come to look you over, 
you 're not )ourself at all. Fifteen years, is n't it, 
since we met ? " 

" .^11 of that," says the stranger. 

" Let 's see : you 've been in the sea-faring line, 
have n't you ? " says Mr. Todd. 

"Yes, I have, bad luck to me!" answers his 
friend, with a sigh. 




•'Oh, well," says the hearty lumberman, "the 
folks on shore have ji't all been fortunate. Where 's 
your home, now ? " 

" Just what I 'm tryinij to find out." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" My dear fellow," says the stranger, with qua- 
vering voice, "my ship was wrecked a year and a 
half ago on the west coast of Africa ; I reached the 
shore, only to fall sick of a fever, through which 
my cabin-boy nursed me ; for a long time I was 
too weak to move ; finally, by slow stages, we 
made our way to Bengucla ; there we waited 
months for a vessel, and, to make a long story 
short, 1. reached Boston this morn- 
ing. I went to the house that was 
mine two years ago, and found it 


occupied by another family, — sold under mortgage, 
they said. They could not tell me where I should 
find my wife and children. 1 went to the neigh- 
bors who knew them; some of them had moved 
away, others w-ere out of town on their Christmas va- 
cation. Of course, I shall find them after a little ; but 
just where to look at this moment I don't know." 

Mr. Todd has listened to this story with a 
changing expression of countenance. When his 
friend first mentioned the shipwreck, a sudden 
light of intelligence sprang into his eye, and his 
lips opened, but he quickly shut them again. He 
is greatly interested in what he hears, but he is 

not greatly pained by it. His friend wonders 
whether Hal Todd has lost some of the old manly 
tenderness of the academy days. 

"Well, Brad Johnson," he cries, drawing a 
long breath, after the short recital is ended, "this 
is a strange story. But, as you say, this family of 
yours can be found, and shall be. Come with me. 
There is a police-station down this way." 

The two men walk on, arm-in-arm, in the 
direction of Denison street. 

"How much is there of this missing family?" 
asks Mr. Todd. 

"There 's a wife and two children, — I hope," 
answers the other. "The best woman in 
the world, Hal, and two of the brightest 
children. Sing like larks, both of 'cm. Bless 
their hearts ! " says the sailor, brushing 
away a tear; " 1 thought I should have 'em 
in my lap this Christmas day, and it 's tough 
to be hunting for 'cm in this blind fashion." 
" It i.< tough," says the lumberman, 
choking a little. He has stopped on the 
sidewalk, on Denison street. Just opposite 
Number 45. He lays his hand on his 
friend's shoulder. "Look here. Brad John- 
son," he says, "we are going to find that 
wife and those children pretty soon, I sus- 
pect. And you 'vc got to keep cool. D' ye 

"What do you mean?" gasps the sailor. 
The eye of Mr. Haliburton Todd is quietly 
lifted to the window of the second story 
opposite. His friend's eye follows, and falls 
on the picture we saw there a little while 
ago, — the mother intent upon the book, the 
children intent upon the mother's face. 

There is no outcry, but the father lifts his 
hands, as if to heav'en, staggers a little, and 
then plunges across the street. Mr. Todd 
is after him, and seizes him by the collar 
just as he reaches the foot of the stairs. 

" Hold on, man ! " he says, decisively. 

" You must n't rush in on that woman in 

this way. You 'd kill her. She 's none too 

strong. Wait here a few moments, and I '11 break 

it to her." 

" You 're right," answers the father, pressing 
his hands against his temples, and steadying him- 
self by the wall. " But you wont keep me waiting 
long, will you ?" 

Mr. Haliburton Todd knocks at the door, and is 
let in by Ben. 

"Oh, Mr. Todd, how good you are! Thank 
you a hundred thousand times 1 " cry both the 
children at once. 

"Well, I 'm glad if you 've enjoyed my little 
gifts," he answers. "But I 've been thinking that 




your good mother ought to have a httle of the 
cheer of this Christmas as well as you." 

"Just what we said," answers Ben. 

Mrs. Johnson colors a little, but before she can 
speak, Mr. Todd goes on. " Pardon me, madam, 
but what your minister told me yesterday of your 

just now, in the street, an old friend of mine — and 
of yours — who knows a good deal about it. And 
I want to assure you, before he comes in, that — 
that the story as it reached you — was — was con- 
siderably exaggerated, that is all. Excuse me, and 
I will send in my friend." 

affairs has led me to take a deep interest in them. 
How long is it since your husband left home? " 

" More than two years," answers the lady. 

"You have had no direct intelligence from him 
since he went away ? " 

"None at all, save the painful news of the loss 
of his vessel, with all on board." 

" Have you ever learned the full particulars of 
the ship%vreck ? " 

"No; how could I?" Mrs. Johnson turns sud- 
denly pale. 

' ' Be calm, I beseech you, my dear lady. I did 
not suppose that you could have heard. But I met 

Mr. Todd quickly withdraws. The color comes 
and goes upon the mother's face. " Merciful 
Father ! " she cries, " what does it all mean?" 

She rises from the chair ; the door that Mr. 
Todd has left ajar gently opens, and quickly closes. 
We will not open it again just now. That place 
is too sacred for prying eyes. It is a great cry of 
joy that fills the ears and the eyes of Mr. Hali- 
burton Todd, as he goes softly down the stairs, and 
walks away to his hotel. 

An hour later, when the shock of the joy is over 
a little, and the explanations have been made, and 
father and mother and children are sitting for a 




few moments silent in a great peace, the nature 
of the human boy begins to assert itself. 

•'Is n't it," ventures Ben, timidly, as if the 
words were a profanation, " is n't it about time for 

"Indeed it is, my boy," answers his mother; 
" and I 'm afraid our dinner is spoiled. Open the 
oven door, Ruby." 

Ruby obeys, and finds the poor, forgotten chicken 
done to a cinder. "Never mind," says the mother. 
"Our dinner will be a little late, but we '11 find 
something with which to keep the feast." 

Just then, there is a knock at the door opening 
into the new neighbor's apartment. 

"What can they want?" says Mrs. Johnson. 
" Perhaps, my dear, you had better answer the 
knock. They are new-comers to-day." 

Mr. Johnson pushes back the bolt and opens the 
door. The room is hung with a profusion of 
Christmas greens. A bright fire blazes on the 

"Your dinnah, sah. De folks's dinnah 'n dis 
ycr front room. It was ordered fo' dem." 

" Where was it ordered ? " 

" Copeland's, sah." 

" Who ordered it ? " 

" den'l'm'n with gray ulcerated coat on, sah; 
I seen him kim up t' ycr room 'bout 'n hour ago. 
I was to git it all ready 'n' call you jcs' half-past 

"Another of Todd's surprises," exclaims Mr. 
Johnson. "Well, my dears, the dinner is here; 
and we should be very ungrateful not to partake of 
it with thanksgiving." 

What a happy feast it is ! How the laughter 
and the tears chase each other around the table ! 
How swiftly the grief and misery and dread of 
the two desolate years that arc gone, fly away into 
a far-off land ! 

By and by, when the cloth is removed, and they 
are seated around the open fire. Ruby says. 

hearth. A table in the middle • of the room is 
loaded with smoking viands. A smiling colored 
waiter, with napkin on arm, bows politely when the 
door is opened. 

"Ef you please, sah, dinnah is ready, sah !" 
"Whose dinner?" demands Mr. Johnson. 

musingly: "Papa, did you really and truly know 

Mr. Todd when you were a boy?" 

" Certainly, my darting ; why do you ask?" 
"I can't quite think," says the girl, "that he is 

a real man. It seems to mc as if he must be an 





While she speaks, the angel is knocking at the 
•door. They all fly to him ; the father hugs him ; 
the mother kisses his hand ; the children clasp his 

" Help ! help ! " shouts the hearty lumberman. 
" 1 did n't come here to be garroted." 

Then, with much laughing and crying, they tell 
him Ruby's doubts concerning him. 

" Well," he says, merrily, "' 1 may be an angel, 
but, if so, I 'm not aware of it. Angels are not 
generally addicted to the lumber business. And 
you need n't make any speeches to me, for I have 

n't time to hear 'em. Fact is, this has been the 
very reddest of all my red-letter days; the merriest 
of my Christmases ; and you people have been 
the innocent occasion of it all. And I 'm not done 
with you yet. I '11 have you all up to my lumber- 
camp next summer; there 's a nice cabin there, for 
you. Pine woods 'II do you lots of good, madam. 
Great fishing there, Ben ! You '11 all come, wont 
you ? It 's almost train-time. Good-bye ! " 

And before they have time to protest or to prom- 
ise, Mr. Haliburton Todd is down the stairs, rush- 
ing away to the station of the Eastern Railroad. 


There was a worthy bcliool-master uho wrote to the trustees 
A full report, three times a year, in words quite like to these : 
The scholars are so orderly, so studious and kind, 
'T is evident I have a gift to train the youthful mind." 



BV Cl.ARA Erskink Clkmkni-. 


Raphael Sanzio, or Santi, was born at Urbi- 
no, on Good Friday, 1483. His father was a good 
painter, and the son showed his talent for art when 
very young. Raphael's mother died when he was 
eight years old, and his step-mother, Bcrnardina, 
was devoted to him, and loved him tenderly. As 
his father died three years after liis mother, he was 
left to the care of an uncle and of Bernardina. His 
father was doubtless his first instructor, for he was 
occupied in painting a chapel at Cagli before his 
death, and he took the young Raphael with him to 
that place. But we usually say that Perugino was 
his first master, because, when twelve years old, he 
was placed in the school of that painter at Perugia. 
Here he remained nearly eight years, and here, 
just before leaving, he jjainted one of his very cele- 
brated pictures, which is now in the gallery of the 
Brera at Milan. It represents the marriage of the 
Virgin Mary, and is called " Lo Sposalizio." 

The legend of the life of the Virgin relates that, 
when she was fourteen years old, the high-priest 
told her that it was proper for her to be married, 
and that he had had a vision concerning her. 

Then the high-priest followed the directions 
which had been given him in the vision, and called 
together all the widowers among the people, and 
directed that each one should bring his rod or wand 
in his hand, as a sign would be given by which 
they should know whom the Lord had selected to 
be the husband of Mary. 

Now when Joseph came with the rest before the 
high-priest, a dove flew out from his rod and rested 
a moment on his head, and then flew off toward 
heaven. And so it was known that he was to be 
the husband of Mary. Still another account says 
that all the suitors left their rods in the temple over 
night, and in the morning that of Joseph had blos- 

In the picture painted by Raphael, with this 
story as its subject, there is a large temple in the 
background, to which many steps lead up. At 
the foot of the long flight of steps the high-priest 
is joining the hands of Joseph and Mary, while 
groups of men and women stand on each side. 
Joseph holds his blossoming rod in his hand, while 
some of the disappointed suitors are breaking their 
rods in pieces. 

This picture of " Lo Sposalizio" is a very inter- 
esting and important one, because it shows the 

highest point of his earliest manner of painting. 
In the same year in which he painted this picture, 
1504, Raphael made his first visit to Florence, and 
though he did not remain very long, he saw a new 
world of art spread out before him. He beheld 
the works of Ghirlandnjo, Fra Bartolommeo, Leon- 
ardo da Vinci, and Michael Angelo, and we can 
well understand that after his return to Perugia he 
tried to equal what he had seen. He soon returned 
to Florence, and remained there until 1508. Some 
of the most famous and lovely pictures of this 
artist were painted during these three years, 
before he was twenty-five years old ; one is called 
the "Virgin of the Goldfinch," because the little 
St. John is presenting a goldfinch to the infant 
Jesus. Another is called " La Belle Jardiniere," 
on account of the garden in which the Virgin sits 
with the child standing at her knee. In all, 
he painted about thirty pictures during his stay 
at Florence, and he made himself so famous that 
the Pope, Julius II., who was a great patron of the 
fine arts, sent for him to come to Rome. 

When Raphael presented himself to the Pope, 
he was assigned several rooms in the palace of 
the Vatican, which he was to decorate in fresco. 
These pictures can scarcely be described here, but 
they were, taken altogether, his greatest work, and 
they are visited by thousands of people every year. 
They are frequently called " Le Stanze" [meaning 
" the rooms " or " apartments"] of Raphael. 

At this time he also painted several beautiful 
easel pictures : his own portrait which is in the 
Gallery of Painters at Florence, and the lovely 
" Madonna di Foligno," in the Vatican gallery, 
which is so called because it was at one time in a 
convent at Foligno. While the painter was at 
work upon " Le Stanze," Julius II. died, but LeoX., 
who followed him, was also a patron of Raphael. 
The artist was \cry popular and became very rich ; 
he built himself a house not far from St. Peter's, in 
the quarter of the city called the Borgo. He had 
many pupils, and they so loved him that they ren- 
dered him personal service, and he was often seen 
in the streets w'ith numbers of his scholars, just as 
noblemen were accompanied by their squires and 
pages. His pupils also assisted in the immense 
frescoes which he did, not only at the Vatican, but 
also for the rich banker Chigi, in the palace now 
called the Villa Farnesina. 

One of the great works Raphael did for Pope Leo 
X. was the making of the Cartoons which are so 

* Copyright, 1881, by Clara Ershine C'lement. All rights reserved. 




often spoken of, and which are now at Hampton 
Court, in England. These were designed to be 
executed in tapestry for the decoration of the 
Sistine Chapel, where Michael Angelo painted 
the "Last Judgment." The Pope, Leo X., ordered 
these tapestries to be woven in the looms of Flan- 
ders, in rich colors, with wool, silk, and threads of 
gold. They were completed at Arras and sent to 
Rome in 15 19, and were first exhibited on St. 
Stephen's Day, December 26th, when all the peo- 
ple of the great city flocked to see them. These 
works have an interesting history. In 1527, when 
Rome was sacked by the fierce Constable de Bour- 
bon, the tapestries were removed by the French 
soldiers ; they were restored in 1553, but one piece 
was missing, and was supposed to have been 
burned in order to obtain the gold thread that was 
in it. In the year 1798 the French once more car- 
ried off these precious spoils, and sold them to a 
Jew in Leghorn. It is known that this jew burned 
one of the pieces, but he found he gained so little 
gold from it that he kept the others whole. Pius 
VII. afterward bought them, and once more placed 
them in the Vatican. This history adds an inter- 
est to the tapestries, but the Cartoons are far more 
valuable and interesting, because they were the 
actual work of Raphael. After the weaving was 
finished at Arras, they were tossed aside as worth- 
less ; some were torn ; but, a hundred years later, 
the painter Rubens learned that a part of them 
were in existence, and he advised King Charles 
I. of England to buy them. This he did, and 
then the Cartoons went through almost as many 
adventures as the tapestries had met. When 
they reached England they were in strips, having 
been so cut for the convenience of the workmen. 
After Charles I. was executed, Cromwell bought 
the Cartoons for ^300. When Charles II. was 
king he was about to sell them to Louis XIV., for 
the English king needed money badly, and the 
French king was anxious to add these treasures to 
the others which he possessed; but Lord Danby 
persuaded Charles II. to keep them. They were 
at Whitehall, and were barely saved from the fire 
in 1698; and soon after that, by command of 
William III., they were properly repaired, and they 
now hang in a room at Hampton Court, which 
was made expressly for them under the care of the 
architect Sir Christopher Wren. There were orig- 
inally eleven ; seven only remain. 

Raphael's fame had so spread itself to other 
countries that it is said King Henry VIII. invited 
him to England. Henry VIII. was told that he could 
not hope to see the artist, who, however, courteously 
sent him a picture of St. George, a patron saint ot 
England, and when Francis I., in his turn, tried to 
induce Raphael to visit France, the artist sent him a 

large picture of St. Michael overpowering the Evil 
One. Francis I. then sent Raphael so great a sum 
of money that he was unwilling to keep it without 
some return, and sent to Francis the lovely " Holy 
Family," now in the gallery of the Louvre, in which 
the infant springs from his cradle into his mother's 
arms, while angels scatter flowers. At the same 
time the artist sent a picture of St. Margaret over- 
coming the Dragon, to the sister of Francis — 
Margaret, Queen of Navarre. After these pictures 
had been received, Francis I. sent Raphael a sum 
equal to fifteen thousand dollars, and many thanks 

About 1520 Raphael painted his famous "Sis- 
tine Madonna," so called because it was intended 
for the convent of St. Sixtus, at Piacenza. The 
Madonna, with the child in her arms, stands in 
the upper part of the picture, while St. Sixtus and 
St. Barbara kneel below. This is very beautiful 
and very wonderful, because no sketch or draw- 
ing of it has ever been found, and it is believed 
that this great painter put it at once upon the 
canvas, being almost inspired to the work. In the 
year 1753, Augustus III., the Elector of Saxony, 
bought it of the monks of Piacenza, and paid 
nearly thirty thousand dollars for it. It is now 
the great attraction of the fine gallery at Dresden. 
It was originally intended for a procession stand- 
ard, or drappellone, but the monks Used it as an 
altar-piece. A copy of it is shown on page 120. 

Another famous picture is called " Lo Spasimo," 
and represents Christ bearing his cross. In 1518 
this was painted for the monks 'of Monte Oliveto, 
at Palermo. The ship in which it was sent was 
wrecked, and the case containing the picture 
floated into the port of Genoa, and the picture 
was unpacked and dried before it was injured. 
There was great joy in Genoa over this treasure, 
and the news of it spread over all Italy. W'hen 
the monks of Palermo claimed it, the Genoese re- 
fused to give it up, and it was only the command 
of the Pope that secured its restoration to its own- 
ers. During the time of Napoleon I. it was car- 
ried to France, but it is now in the museum of 

While Raphael was so productive as a painter, 
he found time to devote to other pursuits. The 
Pope had named him superintendent of the build- 
ing of St. Peter's, and he made many architectural 
drawings for that church ; he was also very much 
interested in digging up the works of art which 
were buried in the ruins of ancient Rome. There 
still exists a letter that he WTOte to Leo X., in 
which he explained his plan for examining all the 
ruins of the city. 

He also made some designs and models for 
works in sculpture, and there is a statue of Jonah 




sitting on a whale, in the Church of Santa Maria 
del Popolo, in Rome, said to have been modeled 
by Raphael and executed in marble by Lorenzctto 
Lotli. An Elijah, seen in the same church, is said 

generous in supplying the needs of those who were 
poorer than himself. 

Raphael lived in splendor and loved the gay 
world, and at one time he expected to marry Maria 


to have been made by Lotti from a drawing by 
Raphael. He also interested himself in wliat was 
happening in the world ; he corresponded with 
many learned men in different countries ; he sent 
artists to make drawings of sucli things as he 
wished to see and had not time to visit, and was 

di Bibbiena, a niece of the Cardinal Bibbiena, but 
she died before the time for the marriage came. 

Among the most lovely Madonnas of this artist is 
that called "Delia Sedia" [of the chair], and there 
is a very pretty legend about it which says that 
hundreds of years ago there was a hermit named 




Father Bernardo, dwelling among the Italian hills ; 
and he was much loved by the peasants, who 
went to him for advice and instruction. He often 
said that in his solitude he was not lonely, for he 

old oak-tree that grew near his hut and sheltered 
it from storm, and hung its branches over him so 
lovingly that the old man grew to feel it was like a 
dear friend to him. There were many birds in its 

had two daughters : one of them could talk to him, branches to whom he gave food, and they, in 


but the other was dumb. He meant to speak of the 
daughter of a vine-dresser who was named Mary, 
and always tried to do all in her power for the com- 
fort of the old man — she was the daughter who 
spoke. By his dumb daughter he meant a grand 

return, gave him sweet songs. Many times the 
woodmen had wished to cut this strong tree do\vn, 
but F.ather Bernardo prayed for its life, and it was 
spared to him. 

At last there came a terrible winter — the storms 





were so severe that few trees and huts remained, 
and the freshets that rushed down the hills swept 
off all that the tempests had left. At last, after a 
dreadful storm, Mary and her father went, with 
fear, to see if the hermit was still alive, for they 
thought he must have perished, liut when they 
came to him they found that his dumb daughter 
had saved his life. On the coming of the freshet, 
he had gone up to the roof of his hut, but he soon 
saw that he was not safe there ; then, as he cast his 
eyes to heaven, the branches of the oak seemed to 
bend toward him, and beckon him to come up to 
them ; so he took a few crusts of bread and climbed 
up into the tree, where he staid three days. 
Below, everything was swept away, but the oak 
stood firm ; and, at hist, when the sun came out 
and the storm was ended, his other daughter came 
to take him to her own home and make him warm 
and give him food, for this dreadful lime of hunger 
and storm had almost worn him out. 

Then the good Father Bernardo called on heaven 
to bless his two good daughters who had saved his 
life, and [jrayed that in some way they might be 
distinguished together. Years p.issed, and the old 
hermit died. Mary married, and became the mother 
of two little boys ; the old oak-tree had been cut 
down and made into wine-casks. One day, as Mary 
sat in the arbor, and her children were with her, 
— she held the youngest to her breast, and the 
older one ran around in merry play, — she called to 
mind the old hermit, and all the blessings that he 
had asked for her, and she wondered if his prayers 
would not be answered in these children. Just then 
the little boy ran to his mother with a stick to 
which he had fastened a cross, and at that moment 
a young man came near. He had large, dreamy 
eyes, and a restless, weary look. And weary he 
was, for the thought of a lovely picture was in his 
mind, but not clear enough in form to enable him 
to paint it. It was Raphael Sanzio d'Urbino, and 
when his glance fell upon the lovely, living picture 
of Mary and her children, he saw, in flesh and 
blood before him, just the lovely dream that had 
floated in his thoughts. But he had only a pencil ! 
On what could he draw ? Just then his eye fell on 
the smooth cover of the wine-cask standing near 
by. He quickly sketched upon this the outlines of 
Mary and her boys, and when he went awa)- he 
took the oaken cover with him. And, thereafter, 
he did not rest until, with his whole soul in his 
work, he had painted that wonderful picture which 
we know as "La Madonna della Sedia." 

Thus, at length, was the prayer of Father Ber- 
nardo answered, and his two daughters were made 
famous together. 

At last the time came in Rome when there was 
much division of opinion as to the merits of the 

two great masters, Michael Angelo and Raphael; 
the followers of the latter were the more numerous, 
but those of the former were very strong in their 
feelings. Finally, the Cardinal Ciiulio dei Medici, 
who was afterward Pope Clement VII., gave 
orders to Ra|)hael and to Sebastian del Piombo 
to paint two large pictures for a cathedral which 
he was decorating at Narbonne. 

It was well known that Michael Angelo would 
not enter into an open rivalry with Raphael, but 
he was credited with making the drawing for the 
" Raising of Lazarus," which was the subject to 
be painted by Sebastian. 

Raph-ael's picture was the " Transfiguration of 
Christ" — but alas! before it was finished, he was 
attacked with a fever, and died after fourteen days. 
He died on Good Friday, 1520, his thirty-seventh 
birthday. All Rome was filled with grief; his 
body was laid in state upon a catafalque, and 
the picture of the Transfiguration stood near it. 
Those who had known him went to gaze on his 
face, to weep, and to give the last tokens of their 
love for him. 

He was buried in the Pantheon, where he him- 
self had chosen to be laid, near the grave of his 
betrothed bride, Maria di Bibbiena. An immense 
poncoursc, dressed in mourning, followed his body, 
and the ceremonials of his funeral were magnifi- 
cent. A Latin inscription was written by Pietro 
Bembo, and placed above his tomb. The last sen- 
tence is : " This is that Raphael by whom Nature 
feared to be conquered while he lived, and to die 
when he died." Raphael had also requested Lo- 
renzetto Lotti to make a statue of the Virgin to 
be placed over his sepulcher. 

His property was large; he gave all his works 
of art to his pupils, Giulio Romano and Francesco 
Penni; he gave his house to Cardinal Bibbiena: he 
ordered a house to be purchased with a thousand 
scudi, the rent of which should pay for twelve 
masses to be said monthly on the altar of his 
burial chapel; and this wish was observed until 
1705, when the rent of the house was too small 
to pay for these services. The remainder of his 
riches was divided among his relatives. 

There was for many years a skull in the Acad- 
emy of St. Luke, at Rome, which was called that 
of Raphael, although there was no good reason 
for this. At length, in 1833, three hundred and 
thirteen years after his death, some antiquarians 
began to dispute about this skull, and received per- 
mission from the Pope, Gregory .XVL, to make a 
search for the bones of Raphael in the Pantheon. 

After five days spent in carefully removing the 
pavement in several places, the skeleton of the 
great master was found, and with it such proofs a& 
made it impossible to doubt that the bones were 





really his. Finally, a grand funeral service was 
held. Gregory XVI. gave a marble sarcophagus, 
in which the bones were placed and interred rever- 
ently in their old resting-place. More than three 
thousand people attended the burial ceremony, 
among whom were the persons of the highest 
rank in Rome, and many artists of all nations, 
who moved about the cliurch in a procession, 
bearing torches, while beautiful music was chant- 
ed by a concealed choir. 

The number and amount of Raphael's works are 
marvelous when the shortness of his life is remem- 

bered. He left behind him two hundred and 
eiglity-seven pictures and five hundred and sev- 
enty-six drawings and studies. 

It was not any one trait or talent which made 
Raphael so great, but it was a rare combination 
of faculties, and a personal charm which won all 
hearts, that entitled him to be called the greatest 
modern painter. His famous picture "St. Cecilia," 
with its sweet expression and exquisite coloring, 
its impressive union of earthly beauty with hoh 
enthusiasm, is symbolic of tlie varied qualities 
of this wonderful man. 


Kv W. W. Fink. 

1 CLOSED my book, for Nature's book 

Was opening that day. 

And, with a weary brain, 1 took 

My hat, and wandered toward the brook 

That in the meadow lay. 

And there, beside the tiny tide, 

I found a child at play. 

Prone on the sward, its little toes 

Wrought dimples in the sand. 

Its checks were fairer than the rose. 

I heard it murmur, " Mam-ma knows. 

But 1 not unnerstand." 

While all unharmed a dainty blade 

Of grass was in its hand. 

" What wouldst thou know, my httle one ? ' 
Said 1, with bearing wise ; 
For 1, who thought to weigh the sun. 
And trace the course where planets run. 
And grasp their mysteries, 
Unto a baby's questionings 
Could surely make replies. 

" What wouldst thou know?" again 1 said, 
And, gently bowing low, 
1 stroked its half-uplifted head. 
With chubby hand it grasped the blade 
And answered: " 'Oo will know, 
For 'oo has whixers on 'oor face. — 
What makes the grasses grow ? " 

" Last fall," I said, " a grass-seed fell 
To the earth and went to sleep. 
All winter it slept in its cozy cell 
Till Spring came tapping upon its shell : 
Vol. IX.— 9. 

Then it stirred, and tried to peep, 

With its little green eye, right up to the sk)', 

And then it gave a leap : 

■ For the sun was warm and the earth was fair. 
It felt the breezes blow. 
It turned its cheek to the soft, sweet air. 
And a current of life, so rich and rare, 
Came up from its roots below, 
It grew and kept growing, and that, my child. 
Is the reason the grasses grow." 

' 'Oo talks des like as if '00 s'pose 
I 's a baby and 1 don't know 
'Bout nuffin' ! But babies and ev'vy one knows 
That grasses don't think, for they only grows. 
My Mam-ma has told me so. 
What makes 'em start an' get bigger an' bigger ? 
What is it that makes 'em grow ? " 

How could 1 answer in words so plain 

That a baby could understand ? 

Ah, how could 1 answer my heart ! 'T were vain 

To talk of the union of sun and rain 

In the rich and fruitful land ; 

For over them all was the myster)- 

Of will and a guiding hand. 

What could 1 gather from learning mori 

Than was w-ritten so long ago? 

I heard the billows of Science roar 

On the rocks of truth from the mystic shore, 

And, humbly bowing low, 

1 answered alike the man and child : 

God makes the grasses grow." 




Tive lime A\^ice 

This l/ftle moujie 
reepeci wrmfn ; 

TTliS (iftle mouire 
Walked rigKt ml 

This liftle mouSie 

rieci OK^ 4 ear Me! 

/ ij Dinner iS" clone , 


(A Fairy Tale.) 

By Frank R. Stockton. 

Very many years ago there lived a noble Count, 
who was one of the kindest and best-hearted men 
in the world. Every day in the year, he gave to 
the poor and helped the friendless, but it was at 
the merry Christmas-time that his goodness shone 
brightest. He had even vowed a vow, that, as far 
as he was able to make them so, every child he 
knew should be happy on Christmas-day. 

Early every Christmas morning, each boy and 
girl in the neighborhood, who was old enough, and 
not too old, came to the castle of the Count Cormo, 
and there the Count and the Countess welcomed 
them all, rich or poor, and through the whole day 
there were games, and festive merr>-making, and 
good things to eat, and fun of every kind, and 
besides all this, there was a grand Christmas-tree, 




with a present on it for each of the eager, happy- 
youngsters who stood around it. 

But ahhough the good Count had a castle and 
rich lands, lie gave away so much money that he 
became poorer and poorer, so that at last he and 
his wife often found it hard to get the clothes and 
food they absolutely needed. 

But this made no difference with the Christmas 
festixities. The Count was not now able to be 
very generous during the year, although he was 
always willing to divide a meal with a hungry 
person ; but he managed so that the children could 
have their festival and their presents at Christmas. 
Year by year he had sold for this purpose some of 
the beautiful things which the castle contained, so 
that now there was scarcely enough furniture left 
for the actual use of himself and the Countess. 

One night, about a week before Christmas, the 
Count and his wife snt in the great hall before a tire 
smaller and poorer than those which burned on the 
hearth of most of the cottagers in the surrounding 
country, for the cottagers could go into the woods 
and pick up sticks and twigs, whereas the Count 
had sold all his forests, so that he could not cut 
wood, and he had only one old man for outdoor 
work, and he had already picked up all the fallen 
branches within a wide circuit of the castle. 

"Well, one thing is certain," said the Countess 
Cormo, .-IS she drew her chair nearer to the little 
pile of burning sticks, " and that is, that we can 
not have the children here at Christmas this year." 

" Why not ? " asked the Count. 

" Because we have nothing to give them," re- 
plied his wife. " We have nothing for them to 
eat ; nothing to put on the tree, and no money to 
l5uy anything. What would be the good of their 
coming when we have nothing at all for them ?" 

" But we must have something," saidthe Count. 
•'Think of ail the \cars that we have had these 
Cliristmas gatherings, and then think how hard it 
would be, both for us and the little ones, to give 
them up now we arc growing old ; and we may not 
be with the children another year. There are yet 
several days before Christmas ; 1 can sell some- 
thing to-morrow, and we can have the tree and 
everything prepared in time. There will not be so 
much to eat as usual, and the presents will be 
smaller, but it will be our good old Christmas in 
spite of that." 

" I should like very much to know what you arc 
going to sell," asked the Countess. " 1 thought 
we had alre.'idy parted with everything that we 
could possibly spare." 

'■ Notcjuitc," said the Count. "There is our old 
family bedstead. It is very large; it is made of 
the most valuable woods, and it is inlaid with gold 
and silver. It will surely bring a good price." 

" Sell the family bedstead!" cried the Countess. 
" The bedstead on which your ancestors, for gener- 
ations, have slept and died ! How could you even 
think of such a thing ! And what are we going to 
sleep on, 1 'd like to know?" 

" Oh, we can get along very well," said the 
Count. " There is a small bedstead which you can 
have, and 1 will sleep upon the floor. I would 
much rather do that than have the children disap- 
pointed at Christmas-time." 

"On the floor! at your age!" exclaimed the 
Countess. "It will be the death of you ! But if 
you have made up your mind, I suppose there is 
no use in my saying anything more .about it." 


" Not the least in the world," replied her hus- 
band, with a smile ; and so she said no more. 

It was on the morning of the next day that 
there came through the forest, not very far from 




the Count Cormo's castle, a tall young giant. As 
he strode along, he appeared to be talking to the 
forefinger of his right hand, which he held up 


before him. He was not, however, talking to his 
forefinger, but to a little fairy who was sitting on 
it, chatting away in a very li\ely manner. 

"And so," said this little creature, "you are 
two hundred miles from your own home ! What 
in the world made you take so long a journey? " 

"I don't call it very long," replied the giant; 
" and I had to take it. There was nothing else to 
do. You see I have nothing to cat, or almost 
nothing, in my castle, and a person can't get along 
that way. He must go and see about things." 

" And what are you going to see about ? " asked 
the fairy. 

" I am going to see if my grandfather's uncle is 
dead. He is very rich and I am one of his heirs. 
When I get my share of his money, I shall be 
quite comfortable." 

" It seems to me," said the fairv', " that it 'is a 
very poor way of living, to be waiting for other 
people's money." 

" It is so," replied the giant. "I 'm tired of it. 
I Ve been waiting ever since I was a little bov." 

The fairy saw that her companion had not 

e.xactly understood her remark, but she said no 

more about it. She merely added, " It seems 

strange to hear you say that 

" you once were little." 

" Oh, yes, I was," said the 
giant. " At one time, I was 
no taller than a horse." 

"Astonishing!" said the 
fairy, making believe to be 
very much surprised. "Now, 
when I was a baby, I was 
about the size of a pea." 

This made the giant laugh, 
lull he said he supposed it 
must have been so, consider- 
ing the present size, and then 
he said : " Talking of peas 
reminds me that I am hun- 
gry. We must stop some- 
where, and ask for something 
to eat." 

"That will suit me very- 
well, but don't let us go to 
the same place," said the 
fairy. " I expect you are 
dreadfully hungry." 

" All right," replied the 
other. "There is a great 
house over in the valley, not 
more than fifteen miles away. 
1 '11 just step over there, and 
you can go to Count Cormo's 
castle. I '11 take you to the 
edge of the woods. When 
you 've had your dinner, come back to this big oak, 
and I will meet you; I 've heard the Count is get- 
ting ver)' poor, but he '11 have enough for you. " 

So the giant put the fairy down on the ground, 
and she skipped along to the castle, while he 
stepped over to the house in the valley. 

In an hour or two they met again at the great 
oak, and the giant taking up his little friend on his 
forefinger, they continued their journey. 

"You told me that Count Cormowas poor," she 
said, "but I don't believe you know how poor he 
really is. When I went there, he and his wife 
had just finished their dinner, and were sitting, 
before the fire-place. I did n't notice any fire in 
it. They were busy talking, and so I did not dis- 
turb them, but just climbed up on the table to see 
what 1 could find to eat. You have n't any idea 
what a miserable meal they must have had. Of 
course there was enough left for me, for I need 
only a few- crumbs, but everything was so hard 
and stale that I could scarcely eat it. I don't see 
how they can live in that way. But after the meal, 


THE POOR c: I) u N r s ci i r i s r m a s . 


when I heard them talking, 1 found out how poor 
they really were." 

•' It was n't exactly the proper thing to sit there 
and listen to them, was it ? " asked the giant. 

"Perhaps not," said the fairy, "but 1 did want 
to hear what they were saying. So I sat quite still. 
They were talking about the Christmas-tree, and 
all the other good things they give the children 
every year ; and although the>- arc so poor, they 
are going to do just the same this year." 

'■ I don't see how tlicy can," said the giant. 

" The Count is going to sell his family bed- 
stead," replied his comp.inion. 

The young giant stopped short in the path. 

" You don't mean to say," he exclaimed, " that 
the celebrated family bedstead of the Cormo family 
is to be sold to give the children a Christmas- 
tree ! " 

" That is exactly what I mean," replied the 

"Well, well, well!" said the giant, resuming 
his walk. " I never heard of such a thing in all 
my born days. It 's dreadful, it 's pitiful ! " 

" Indeed it is," said the fair)-. 

" It ought to be stopped," added the giant. 
" He should n't be allowed to do such a thing." 

" Indeed he should n't," the fairy said. 

.■\nd thus they went on lamenting and regretting 
the poor Count's purpose, for about eleven miles. 
Then they came to a cross-road through the forest. 

■• [ '11 go down here," said the giant, " and 
leave you among your friends at Fairy Elms, 
where you want to go." 

" I 'm not sure that 1 do want to go there just 
now," said the fairy. " I think 1 should Uke to go 
with you to your grandfather's uncle's castle, and 
see what your prospects are. If you find he is still 
alive, shall you wait ? " 

" I guess not," said the giant, laughing. " But 
you can come along with me, and we '11 sec how 
things stand." 

Before ver)- long, they came to a great castle, and 
a warder stood before the gate. 

" Ho, warder! " cried the giant when he came 
up. " How goes it with my grandfather's uncle, 
the old giant Omscrag ? " 

"He has been dead a month," said the warder, 
" and his property is all divided among his heirs." 

"That is not so," roared the giant. " I am one 
of his heirs, and I have n't got anything." 

" I don't know anything about it," said the 
warder. " I was told to give that message to 
every one who came, and I 've given it to you." 

" Who told you to give it?" cried the giant. 

" My master, Katofan, who is the old giant's 
principal heir, and who now owns the castle." 

" Katofan ! " exclaimed the giant. "What im- 

pudence I He 's a ninth cousin by marriage. 
Where is he ? I want to see him." 

" I don't think he is well enough to see any- 
body to-day," said the warder. 

" Open that gate ! " the giant roared, " or I shall 
plunge your family into woe ! " 

The warder turned pale, and opened the gate as 
wide as it would go, while the giant, with the fair)- 
on his finger, walked boldly in. 

In a large inner hall, sitting before a great fire, 
they saw a giant so tall and thin that he looked as 
if he had been made of great fishing-poles.- He 
turned uneasily in his chair when he saw his vis- 
itor, and was going to say something about being 
too unwell to receive company, when our young 
giant, whose name was Feldar, interrupted him by 
calhng out, in a tremendous voice : 

"Well, now, Katofan, I should like to know what 
all this means ! How did you come to be heir to 
this castle ? " 


" Because it descended to me from my good old 
relative and friend," said the other. 

" I expect there are a hundred heirs, who have a 




better right to it than you," baid our giant. " The 
truth is, no doubt, that you were here when my 
grandfather's uncle died, and that you took posses- 
sion, and have since kept everybody out." 

" Oh, no," said the thin giant, " the other heirs 
have had a share of the fortune." 

" How many of them ? " said Feldar, '• and how 
much did they get ? " 

" As many as two or three of them," said the 
other, "and they got some very nice things in the 
way of ornaments and curiosities." 

"Well," said Feldar, stretching himself up high, 
" I am one of the heirs to this property, and I 
want my share of it. Who attends to the dividing 
business? Do you do it yourself ?" 

"Oh, no!" said the thin giant. "1 am not 
well enough for that. I can not go about much. 
But I will send for my dividing-agent. I had to 
employ one, there was so much to do. He will sec 
that you get your share." 

He then rang a bell, and a small man appeared. 
When the fairy saw him, she could not help laugh- 
ing, but her laugh was such a little one that no 
one noticed it. He had a bushy head of hair, 
which was black as ink on one side, and as white 
as milk on the other. Looking at him from one 
side, he seemed quite young, and from the other 
side, quite old. 

" Flipkrak," said the thin giant, " this is another 
heir to this property ; we overlooked him when wc 
made our division. I wish you would take him, as 
you did the others, and let him choose something 
that he would like to have." 

" Certainly," said Flipkrak. "This way, good 
sir," and he went out of a side-door, followed 
closely by Feldar. 

" How would you like a hinge ?" cried the thin 
giant, as they reached the door. " There are some 
very handsome and odd hinges, nearly new. If 
you take one, you might some day get another to 
match it, and then you would have a nice pair 
all ready, when you put up a new door." 

Feldar stopped a moment in the door-way. 

" I '11 look at them," he answered, and then 
went on. 

" Here, good sir," said Flipkrak, showing the 
young giant into a large room, " is a collection of 
most beautiful articles. You can choose any one 
of them, or even two if you like. They will be 
admirable mementos of your deceased relative." 

Feldar looked around. There were all sorts of 
brass and iron ornaments, old pieces of furniture, 
and various odds and ends, of little value. 

" A nice lot of rubbish," said the young giant. 
"If I ever have any holes to fill up, on my ground, 
I may send for a few wagon-loads of it. Suppose 
we look through the rest of the castle ? " 

"Oh, good sir," said the dividing-agent, "the 
things in the rest of the castle belong to my good 
master ! " 

" You can come, if you choose," said Feldar, 
striding away, " or you can stay behind," and the- 
poor man, frightened, ran after him as fast as he 

The young giant walked through several of the 
vast rooms of the castle. " 1 see you have a great 
deal of very fine furniture here," he said to Flip- 
krak, " and I need furniture. I will mark some of 
it with this piece of chalk, and you can send it 
to me." 

" Oh, yes, good sir," cried the dividing-agent, 
quite pleased at this. " We can send it to you 
after you go away." 

P'eldar took a piece of chalk from his pocket, and 
marked enough furniture to furnish an ordinary 

" This kind of chalk will not rub off," he said, 
" and I 've marked the things where it wont show. 
But don't overlook any of them. Now, where are 
your money-vaults ? " 

" Oh, good sir ! " cried the dividing-agent, " you 
can't go there, we don't divide any of — I mean we 
have n't any money-vaults ! " 

" Give me the key," said Feldar. 

" Oh, good sir ! " cried Flipkrak, shaking Vith 
terror, " 1 must not let that go out of my keeping 
— I mean I have n't got it." 

The giant made no answer, but taking the 
dividing-agent by the heels, he held him upside 
down in the air, and shook him. A big key 
dropped from his pockets. 

"That's the key, no doubt," said the giant, put- 
ting the man down, and picking up the key. " I 
can find the vault by myself. 1 wont trouble you 
any more." 

But as he went down to the lower parts of the cas- 
tle, the dividing-agent ran after him, wailing and 
tearing his two-colored hair. 

When he reached the money-vault, Feldar 
easily opened the door and walked in. Great bags 
of gold and silver, each holding about a bushel, 
were piled up around the walls. Feldar took out 
his piece of chalk, and marked about a dozen of 
those bags which held the gold coin. 

" Oh, that 's right, good sir," cried Flipkrak, 
feeling a little better. " We can send them to you 
after you go away." 

"What is in those small bags, on that shelf?" 
asked Feldar. 

"Those are diamonds, good sir," said the 
agent; " you can mark some of them if you like." 

" I will mark one," said the giant to the fairy, 
who was securely nestled in the ruffles of his shirt- 
bosom, "and that I will give to you." 



" To nic ! " exclaimed Flipkrak, who did not 
see the fairy; ''what docs he mean by that?" 

"Thank you," said the httle creature, in dehght. 
" Diamonds are so lovely ! How glad 1 am that 
your grandfather's uncle died ! " 

" You should n't say that." said the giant. " It 
is n't proper." 

" But you feel glad, don't you ? " she asked. 

" I don't talk about it, if I do," said Keldar. 
Then turning to the dividing-agent, he told him 
that he thought lie had marked all the bags he 

" All right, good sir," said Flipkrak, " we will 
send them to you, very soon — -very soon." 

" Oh, you need n't trouble yourself about that," 
said Feldar; "I will take them along with me." 
And so saying, he put the bag of diamonds in one 
of his coat-pockets, and began to pile the bags of 
money on his shoulders. 

The dividing-agent yelled and howled with dis- 
may, but it was of no use. Feldar loaded liimself 
with his bags, and walked off, without even look- 
ing at Flipkrak, who was almost crazy at seeing 
so much of his master's treasure boldly taken away 
from him. 

Feldar stopped for a moment in the great hall. 

where the thin giant was still sitting before the fire. 
" I 'vc taken my share of the money," he said, 
"and I 've marked a lot of furniture and things 
which 1 want you to send me, inside of a week. 
Do you understand ? " 

The thin giant gave one look at the piles of bags 
on Feldar's shoulders, and fainted away. He had 
more money left than he could possibly use, but he 
could not bear to lose the least bit of the wealth he 
had seized upon. 

"What in the world arc you going to do with 
all that money ? " the fairy asked. 

" 1 am going to give one bag of it to Count 
Cormo, so that he can offer the children a decent 
Christmas-tree, and the rest I shall carry to my 
castle on Shattered Crag." 

" I don't believe the Count will take it," said the 
fairy. " He 's awfully proud, and he would say that 
you were giving the Christmas feasts and not he. 
I wish you would let me manage this affair for you." 

"Well, I will," said the giant. 

" All right," cried the fairy, clapping her hands. 
" I '11 do the thinking, and you can do the work- 
ing. It 's easy for me to think." 

"And it 's just as easy for me to work," said 
Feldar, with hearty good-will. 

{Conclusion rtext vtonth.) 







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Vol. IX.— I o. 





Bv Harry j\I. Kieffkr. 

Chapter IV. 


On a certain day near the beginning of April, 
1863, we were ordered to prepare for a grand re- 
view of our Corps. President Lincoln, Mrs. Lin- 
coln, Master Tad Lincoln (who used to play among 

itself to the eyes of the beholders when, on the 
morning of the ninth day of April, 1863, our gal- 
lant First Army Corps, leaving its camps among 
the hills, assembled on a wide, extended plain for 
the inspection of our illustrious visitors. 

As regiment after regiment, and brigade after 
brigade, came marching out from the surrounding 

IHK llvESlDtN 1. 

our tents at " Soldiers' Home"), and some of the 
Cabinet officers, were coming down to look us over 
and see what promise we gave for the campaign 
soon to open. 

Those who have never seen a grand review 
of well-drilled troops in the field have never seen 
one of the finest and most inspiring sights the 
eyes of man can behold. I wish I could impart 
to the readers of St. NICHOLAS some faint idea 
of the thrilling scene which must have presented 

hills and ravines, with flags gayly flying, bands 
and drum corps making such music as was 
enough to stir the blood in the heart of the most 
indifferent to a quicker pulse, and -well-drilled 
troops that marched in the morning sunlight with 
a step as steady as the stroke of machinery — ah, 
it was a sight to be seen but once in a century ! 
And when those twenty thousand men were all at 
last in line, with the artillery in position off to one 
side on the hill, and readv to fire their salute, it 

* Copyright, 1881, by Harry M. Kieffer. All rights reser\-ed. 




seemed well worth the President's while to come 
all the way from Washington to look at them. 

But the President was a long, long time in com- 
ing. The sun, mounting fast toward noon, began 
to be insufferably hot. One hour, two hours, three 
hours were passing away, when, at last, far off 
through a defile between the hills, we caught sight of 
a great cloud of dust. 

" Fall in, men I " for now here they come, sure 
enough. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln in a carriage, 
escorted by a body of cavalry and groups of offi- 
cers, and at the head of the cavalcade Master 
Tad, sure as the world, mounted on a pony, and 
having for his especial escort a boy orderly, dressed 
in a cavalryman's uniform and mounted on another 
pony! And the two little fellows, scarce restraining 
their boyish delight, outrode the company and 
came on the field in a cloud of dust and at a full 
gallop — little Tad shouting to the men, at the top 
of his voice : " Make way, men ! .Make way, men ! 
Father 's a-coming ! Father 's a-coming ! " 

Then the artillery breaks forth into a thundering 
salute, that wakes the echoes among the hills and 
sets the air to shivering and quaking about your 
ears, as the cavalcade gallops down the long line, 
and regimental standards droop in greeting, and 
bands and drum corps, one after another, strike 
up "Hail to the Chief," till they are all playing 
at once in a grand chorus, that makes the hills 
ring as they never rang before. 

But all this is only a flourish by way of prelude. 
The real beauty of the review is yet to come, and 
can be seen only when the cavalcade, havmg gal- 
loped down the line in front and up again on the 
rear, has taken its stand out yonder immediately 
in front of the middle of the line, and the order is 
given to "pass in review." 

Notice now, how, by one swift and dexterous 
movement, as the officers step out and give the 
command, that long line is broken into platoons 
of exactly equal length ; how, straight as an arrow, 
each platoon is dressed ; how the feet of the men 
all move together, and their guns, flashing in the 
sun, have the same inclination. Observe particu- 
larly how, when they come to wheel off, there is no 
bend in the line, but they wheel as if the whole 
platoon were a ramrod made to revolve about its 
one end through a quarter-circle; and now that 
they arc marching thus down the field and past the 
President, what a grandeur there is in the steady 
step and onward sweep of that column of twenty 
thousand boys in blue ! 

But, once we have passed the President and 
gained the other end of the field, it is not nearly 
so nice. For we must needs finish the review in 
a double-quick, just by way of showing, I suppose, 
what we could do if we were wanted in a hurr\- — 

as, indeed, we will be, not more than sixty days 
hence ! Away we go, then, on a dead run off the 
field, in a cloud of dust and amid a clatter of bay- 
onet-scabbards, till, hid behind the hills, we come to 
a more sober pace, and march into camp just as 
tired as tired can be. 



" Harry, would n't you like to go out on picket 
with us to-morrow ? The weather is ple.isant, and 
I 'd like to have you for company, for time hangs 
rather heavy on a fellow's hands out there ; and, 
besides, 1 want you to help me with my Latin." 

Andy was a studious fellow, and carried on his 
studies with greater or less regularity during our 
whole time of service. Of course we had no books, 
except a pocket copy of " Cx'sar," but to make up 
for the deficiency, particularly of a grammar, I had 
written out the declensions of the nouns and the 
conjugations of the verbs on odd scraps of paper, 
which Andy had gathered up and carried in a roll 
in his breast-pocket, and many were the lessons we 
had together under the canv;is or beneath the sigh- 
ing branches of the pines. 

" Well, old boy, I W like to go along first-rate, 
but we must get permission of the adjutant first." 

Having secured the adjutant's consent, and pro- 
vided myself with a gun and accouterments, the 
next morning at four o'clock I set out, in company 
with a body of some several hundred men of the 
regiment. We were to be absent from camp for 
two days, at the expiration of which time we were 
to be relieved by the next detail. 

It was pleasant April weather, for the season was 
well advanced. Our route lay straight over the 
hills and through the ravines, for there were no 
roads, fences, nor fields. But few houses were to 
be seen, and from these the inhabitants had, of 
course, long since disappeared. At one of these 
few remaining houses, situated some three hundred 
yards from the river's edge, our advance picket- 
reserve was established, the captain in command 
making his head-quarters in the once beautiful 
grounds of the mansion, long since left empty and 
deserted by its former occupants. The place had 
a very distressing air of neglect. The beautiful 
lawn in front, where merry children had no doubt 
played and romped in years gone by, was over- 
grown with weeds. The large and commodious 
porch in front, w-here in other days the family 
gathered in the evening-time and talked and sang, 
while the river flowed peacefully by, was now- 
abandoned to the spiders and their webs. The 
whole house was pitifulU' forlorn-looking, as if 




wondering why the family did not come back to fill 
its spacious halls with life and mirth. Even the 
colored people had left their quarters. There was 
not a soul anywhere about. 

We were not permitted either to enter the house 
or to do any damage to the property. Pitching 
our shelter-tents under the outspreading branches 
of the great elms on the lawn in front of the house, 
and building our fires back of a hill in the rear, to 
cook our breakfast, we awaited our turn to stand 
guard on the picket-line, which ran close along the 
river's edge. 

It may be interesting to the boys of St. Nicho- 
las to know more particularly how this matter of 
standing picket is arranged and conducted. When 
a body of men numbering, let us say, for the sake 
of example, two hundred in all, go out on picket, 
the detail is usually divided into two equal parts, 
consisting in the supposed case of one hundred 
each. One of these companies of a hundred goes 
into a sort of camp about a half-mile from the 
picket-line, — usually in a woods or near by a spring, 
if one can be found, or in some pleasant ravine 
among the hills, — and the men have nothing to 
do but make themselves comfortable for the first 
twenty-four hours. They may sleep as much as 
they like, or play at such games as they please, 
only they must not go away any considerable dis- 
tance from the post, because they may be very 
suddenly wanted, in case of an attack on the 
advance picket-line. 

The other band of one hundred takes position 
only a short distance to the rear of the line 
where the pickets pace to and fro on their beats, 
and is known as the advance picket-post. It is 
under the charge of a captain or lieutenant, and is 
divided into three parts, each of \\hich is called a 
"relief," the three being known as the first, the 
second, and the third relief, respectively. Each 
of these is under the charge of a non-commissioned 
officer, — a sergeant or corporal, — and must stand 
guard in succession, two hours on and four 
off, day and night, for the first twenty-four hours, 
at the end of which time the reserve one hundred 
in the rear march up and relieve the whole advance 
picket-post, which then goes to the rear, throws off 
its accouterments, stacks its arms, and sleeps till it 
can sleep no more. I need hardly add that each 
picket is furnished with the countersign, which is 
regularly changed every day. While on the 
advance picket-post no one is permitted to sleep, 
whether on duty on the line or not, and to sleep on 
the picket-line is death ! At or near midnight a 
body of officers, known as " The Grand Rounds," 
goes all along the line examining every picket to 
see that "all is well." 

Andy and I had by request been put together on 

the second relief, and stood guard from eight to 
ten in the morning, two to four in the afternoon, 
and eight to ten and two to four at night. 

It was growing dark as we sat with our backs 
against the old elms on the lawn, telling stories, 
singing catches of songs, or discussing the proba- 
bilities of the summer campaign, when the call rang 
out: "Fall in, second relief! " 

" Come on, Harry — get on your horse-hide and 
shooting-iron. We 've got a nice moonlight night 
for it, anyway." 

Our line, as I have said, ran directly along the 
river's edge, up and down, which Andy and I 
paced on our adjoining beats, each of us having to 
walk about a hundred yards, when we turned and 
walked back, with gun loaded and capped and at a 

The night was beautiful. A full round moon 
shone out from among the fleecy clouds overhead. 
At my feet was the pleasant plashing of the river, 
ever gliding on, with the moonbeams dancing as if 
in sport on its rippling surface, while the opposite 
bank was hid in the deep, solemn shadows made by 
the overhanging trees. Yet the shadows were not 
so deep there but that occasionally I could catch 
glimpses of a picket silently pacing his beat on the 
south side of the river, as I was pacing mine on the 
north, with bayonet flashing in the patches of 
moonlight as he passed up and down. I fell to 
wondering, as 1 watched him, what sort of man 
he was ? Young or old ? Had he children at 
home, may be, in the far-off South ? Or a father and 
mother ? Did he wish this cruel war was over ? In 
the next fight may be he 'd be killed ! Then I fell 
to wondering who had lived in that house up yon- 
der — what kind of people were they ? Were the 
sons in the war, and the daughters, where were 
they ? — and would they ever come back again and 
set up their household gods in the good old place 
once more ? My imagination was busy trying to 
picture the scenes that had enlivened the old planta- 
tion, the darkies at work in the fields and the 

" Hello, Yank ! We can lick you ! " 

" Beautiful night, Johnny, is n't it? " 

" Y-e-s, lovely!" 

But our orders are to hold as little conversation 
with the pickets on the other side of the river as 
necessary, and so, declining any further civilities, I 
resume my beat. 

"Harry, I 'm going to lie down here at the 
upper end of your beat," says the sergeant who 
has charge of our relief. " 1 aint agoing to 
sleep, but 1 'm tired. Every time you come up to 
this end of your beat speak to me, will you ? — for 
I might fall asleep." 

"Certainly, Sergeant." 

The first time 1 speak to him. the second, and 




the third, he answers readily enough, ''AH right, 
Harrv," but at the fourth summons he is sound 
asleep. Sleep on, Sergeant, sleep on ! Your slum- 
bers shall not be broken by me — unless the 
"Grand Rounds" come along, for whom I must 
keep a sharp lookout, lest they catch you nap- 
ping and give you a pretty court-martial ! But 
Grand Rounds or no, you shall have a little 


sleep. One of these days, you, and many more 
of us besides, will sleep the last long sleep that 
knows no waking. But hark! — I hear the chal- 
lenge up the line ! I must rouse you, after all. 

" Sergeant ! Sergeant ! Get up — Grand Rounds ! " 

"Halt! Who goes there?" 

"The Grand Rounds." 

"Advance, officer of the (".i:ind Rounds, and 
give the countersign." 

An officer steps out from the group that is half- 
hidden in the shadow, and whispers in my ear, 
"Lafayette," when the whole body silently and 
stealthily passes down the line. 

Relieved at ten o'clock, we go back to our post 
at the house, and find it rather hard work to keep 
our eyes open from ten to two o'clock, but sleep is 
out of the question. At two o'clock in the morn- 

ing the second relief goes out again — down 
through the patch of meadow, wet with the heavy 
dew, and along down the river to our posts. It is 
nearly three o'clock, and Andy and 1 are standing 
talking in low tones, he at the upper end of his 

beat and I at the lower end of mine, when 

Bang ! And the whistle of a ball is heard over- 
head among the brariches. Springing forward at 
once by a common impulse, we get 
behind the shelter of a tree, run out 
our rifles, and make ready to fire. 

"You watch up-river, Harry," whis- 
pers Andy, "and 1 '11 watch down, 
.ind if you see him trying to handle 
his ramrod, let him have it, and don't 
miss him." 

But apparently Johnny is in no hurry 
to load up again, and likes the deep 
shadow of his tree too well to walk his 
beat any more, for we wait impatienth' 
for a long while and see nothing of 
him. By and by we hear him calhng 
over: "I say, Yank! " 
•■Well, Johnny?" 
■'If you wont shoot, 1 wont. " 
■■ Rather late in the morning to 
make such an offer, is n't it ? Did n't 
you shoot. Just now?" 

" You see, my old gun went off by 

' ' That 's a likely yarn o' yours, 
Johnny ! " 

•' But it 's an honest fact, any way." 
" Well, Johnny, next time your gun 
's going to go off in that uncomfort- 
able way, you will oblige us chaps 
over here by holding the muzzle 
down toward Dixie, or somebody '11 
turn up his toes to the daisies before 
morning yet." 
" All right. Yank," said Johnny, stepping out 
from behind his tree into the bright moonlight like 
a man, " but we can lick you, any way ! " 

"Andy, do you think that fellow's gun went off 
by accident, or was the rascal trying to hurt some- 
body ? " 

" I think he 's honest in what he says, Harry. 
His gun might have gone off by accident. There 
's no telling, though. He '11 need a little watching, 
I guess." 

But Johnny paces his beat harmlessly enough 
for the remainder of the hour, singing catches of 
song, and whistling the airs of Dixie, while we pace 
ours as leisurely as he, but, with a wholesome 
regard for guns that go off so easily of themselves, 
we have a decided preference for the dark shadows, 
and are cautious lest we linger too long on those 




parts of our several beats where the bright moon- 
beams lie. 

It must not be supposed that the sentries of the 
two armies were forever picking one another off 
whenever opportunity offered ; for what good did it 
do to murder each other in cold blood ? It only 
wasted powder, and did not forward the issue 
of the great conflict at all. Except at times im- 
mediately before or after a battle, or when there 
was some specially exciting reason for mutual 
defiance, the pickets were generally on friendly 
terms, conversed freely about the news of the 
day, exchanged newspapers, coffee, and tobacco, 
swapped knives, and occasionally had a friendly 
game of cards together. Sometimes, however, 
picket duty was but another name for sharp-shoot- 
ing and bushwhacking of the most dangerous and 
deadly sort. 

When we had been relieved, and got back to our 
little bivouac under the elms on the lawn, and sat 
down there to discuss the episode of the night, 1 
asked Andy: 

"What was that piece of poefry you read to me 
the other day, about a picket being shot ? It was 
something about ' all quiet along the Potomac to- 
night.' Do you remember the words well enough 
to repeat it ? " 

" Yes, I committed it to memorj-, Harry, and if 
you wish, I '11 recite it for your benefit. We '11 just 
imagine ourselves back in the dear old Academy 
again, and that it is ' declamation-day,' and my 
name is called and I step up and declaim : 

" 'all quiet along the POTOMAC TO-NIGHT. 

*' ' All quiet along the Potomac, they say. 

Except, now and then, a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro. 

By a rifleman hid in the thickeL 
'T is nothing — -a private or two, now and then, 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men. 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 

" ' All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn mom. 

O'er the light of the watch-fires are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping. 
While stars up above, >vith their glittering eyes. 

Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

•' ' There 's only the sound of the lone sentr>''s tread. 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. 
And thinks of the two, in the low trundle-bed. 

Far away in the col on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim. 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her! 

** ' He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree — 
His footstep is lagging and wear^' ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 

Hark I was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle — " Ha ! Mary, good-bye ! " 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing ! 

" ' All quiet along the Potomac to-night — 
No sound save the rush of the river : 
While soft falls the dew on the fece of the dead — 
The picket 's off duty forever ! ' " 

Chapter VI. 

HOW WE GOT A shelling. 

" Pack, up ! " " Fall in ! " All is stir and excite- 
ment in the camp. The bugles are blowing 
"boots and saddles " for the cavalry camped above 
us on the hill ; we drummer-boys are beating the 
"long roll" and "assembly" for the regiment; 
mounted orderlies are galloping along the hill-side 
with great yellow envelopes stuck in their belts; 
and the men fall out of their miserable winter- 
quarters, with shouts and cheers that make the hills 
about Falmouth ring again. For the winter is 
past ; the sweet breath of spring comes balmily 
up from the south, and the whole army is on the 
move — whither ? 

"Say, Captain, tell us w'here are we going?" 
But the captain does n't know, nor even the colonel 
— nobody knows. We are raw troops yet. and 
have not learned that soldiers never ask questions 
about orders. 

So, fall in there, all together, and fonvard ! 
And we ten little drummer-boys beat gayly enough 
" The Girl I Left Behind Me," as the line sweeps 
over the hills, through the woods, and on down to 
the river's edge. 

And soon here we are, on the Rappaliannock, 
three miles below Fredericksburg. We can see, as 
we emerge from the woods, away over the river, 
the long line of earth-works thrown up by the 
enemy, and small dark specks moving about along 
the field, in the far, dim distance, which we know 
to be officers, or perhaps cavalry-pickets. We can 
see, too, our own first division laying down the 
pontoon-bndge, on which, according to a rumor 
that is spreading among us, we are to cross the 
river and charge the enemy's works. 

Here is an old army-letter lying before me, 
written on my drum-head in lead-pencil, in that 
stretch of meadow by the river, where 1 heard my 
first shell scream and shriek : 

" NE.'^R RAPP.A.HANNOCK RiVER, Apr. 2Sth. 

"De.\r F-\THER: We have moved to the river, 
and are just going into battle. I am well and so 
are the boys. — Your affect, son, Harry." 

But we do not go into battle that day, nor next 
day, nor at all at that point ; for we are making 
only a " feint," though we do not know it now, to 
attract the attention of the enemv from the main 




movement of the army at Chancellorsville, some 
twenty-five or thirty miles farther up the river. 
The men are in good spirits and all ready for the 
fray, but as the day wears on without further devel- 
opments, arms arc stacked, and wc begin to roam 
about the hills ; some are writing letters home, 
some sleeping, some even fishing in a little rivulet 
that runs by us, when toward three o'clock in the 
afternoon, and all of a sudden, the enemy opens 
fire on us with a salute of three shells fired in rapid 
succession, not quite into our ranks, but a little to 
the left of us ; and see ! over there where the Forty- 
third lies, to our left, come three stKlchcrs, and you 
can sec deep crimson stains on the canvas as they 
go by us on a lively trot to the rear; for " the ball 
is opening, boys," and we are under fire for the 
first time. 

I wish I could convej- to the readers of St. 
NiCHOL.AS some faint idea of the noise made by a 
shell as it flies shrieking and screaming through 
the air, and of that peculiar -i^'/iiniiig sound made 
by the pieces after the shell has burst overhead or 
by your side. So loud, high-pitched, shrill, and 
terrible is the sound, that one unaccustomed to it 
would think at first that the \ery heavens were 
being torn down about his ears ! 

How often I have laughed and laughed at myself 
when thinking of that first shelling we got there by 
the river ! For, up to that time, 1 had had a ver\- 
poor, old-fashioned idea of what a shell was like, 
having derived it probably from accounts of sieges 
in the Mexican war. 

I had thought a shell was a hollow ball of iron, 
filled with powder and furnished with a fuse, and 
that they threw it o\cr into your ranks, and there 
it lay, hissing and spitting, till the fire reached the 
powder, and the shell burst and killed a dozen men 
or so — that is, if some venturesome fellow did n't 
run up and stamp the fire off the fuse before the 
miserable thing went off ! Of a conical shell, 
shaped like a minie-ball, with ridges on the out- 
side to fit the grooves of a rifled cannon, and ex- 
ploding by a percussion-cap at the pointed end, 1 
had no idea in the world. But that was the sort 
of thing they were firing at us now — Hur-r-r — 
bang! Hur-r-r — bang! 

Throwing myself flat on my face while that terri- 
ble shriek is in the air, I cling closer to the ground 
while I hear that low, whirring sound near by, 
which 1 foolishly imagine to be the sound of a 
burning fuse, but which, on raising my head and 
looking up and around, I find is the sound of 
pieces of exploded shells flying through the air about 
our heads ! The enemy has excellent range of us, 
and gives it to us hot and fast, and we fall in line 
and take it as best we may, and without the pleas- 
ure of replying, for the enemy's batteries are a full 

mile and a half away, and no Enfield rifle can 
reach half so far. 

■■ Colonel, move your regiment a little to the 
right, so as to get under cover of yonder bank. ' 
It is soon done ; and there, seated on a bank about 
twenty feet high, with our backs to the enemy, we 
let them blaze away, for it is not likely the)' can 
tumble a shell down at an angle of forty-five 

And now, sec ! Just to the rear of us, and there- 
fore in full view as we are sitting, is a battery of 
our own, coming up into position at full gallop — a 
grand sight indeed ! The officers with swords 
flashing in the evening sunlight, the bugles clang- 
ing out the orders, the carriages unlimbered, and 
the guns run up into position ; and now, that ever 
beautiful drill of the artillery in action, steady and 
regular as the stroke of machiner)' ! How swiftly 
the man that handles the swab has prepared his 
piece, while the runners have meanwhile brought 
up the little red bag of powder and the long, coni- 
cal shell from the caisson in the rear! How swiftly 
they are rammed home ! The lieutenant sights his 
piece, the man with the lanyard with a sudden jerk 
fires the cap, the gun leaps five feet to the rear 
with the recoil, and out of the cannon's throat, in a 
cloud of smoke, rushes the shell, shrieking out its 
message of death into the lines a mile and a half 
away, while our boys rend the air with wild hur- 
rahs, for the enemy's fire is answered ! 

Now ensues an artillery duel that keeps the air 
all quivering and quaking about our ears for an 
hour and a half, and it is all the more exciting that 
we can see the beautiful drill of the batteries beside 
us, with that steady swabbing and ramming, run- 
ning and sighting and bang ! bang ! bang ! The 
mystery is how in the world they can load and fire 
so fast. 

" Boys, what are you trying to do ? " It is the 
general commanding the division, who reins in his 
horse and asks the question, and he is one of the 
finest artillerists in the ser\'ice, they say. 

" Why, General, we are trying to put a shell 
through that stone barn over there ; it 's full of 

" Hold a moment ! " — and the general dis- 
mounts and sights the gun. " Try that elevation 
once. Sergeant," he says ; and the shell goes crash- 
ing through the barn a mile and a half away, and 
the sharp-shooters come pouring out of it like bees 
out of a hive. " Let them have it so, boys." And 
the general has mounted, and rides, laughing, 
away along the line. 

Meanwhile, something is transpiring immediately 
before our eyes that amuses us immensely. Not 
more than twenty yards away from us is another 
high bank, corresponding exactly with the one we 




are occupying, and running parallel with it, the 
two hills inclosing a little ravine some twenty or 
thirty yards in width. 

This second high bank, — the nearer one, — you 
must remember, faces the enerny's fire. The water 
has worn out of the soft sand-rock a sort of cave, 
in which Darky Bill, our company cook, took 
refuge at the crack of the first shell. And there, 
crouching in the narrow recess of the rock, we can 
see him shivering with affright. Every now and 
then, when there is a lull in the firing, he comes to 
the wide-open door of his house, intent upon flight, 
and, rolling up the great whites of his eyes, is about 
to step out and run, when Hur-r-r — bang — 
crack 1 goes the shell, and poor scared Darky Bill 
dives into his cave again head-first, like a frog into 
a pond. 

After repeated attempts to run and repeated 
frog-leaps backward, the poor fellow takes heart 
and cuts for the woods, pursued by the laughter 
and shouts of the regiment — for which he cares far 
less, however, than for that terrible shriek in the 
air, which, he afterward told us, " was a-sayin' all 
de time, 'Where 's dat nigger ! Where 's dat nig- 
ger! Where 's dat nigger ! ' " 

As night-fall comes on, the firing ceases. Word 

is passed around that under cover of night we are 
to cross the pontoons and charge the enemy's 
works ; but we sleep soundly all night on our arms, 
and are awaked only by the first streaks of light 
in the morning sky. 

We have orders to move. A staff-officer is deliv- 
ering orders to our colonel, who is surrounded by his 
staff They press in toward the messenger, standing 
immediately below me as I sit on the bank, when 
the enemy gives us a morning salute, and the shell 
comes ricochetting over the hill and tumbles into a 
mud-puddle about which the group is gathered ; 
the mounted officers crouch in their saddles and 
spur hastily away, the foot officers throw them- 
selves flat on their faces into the mud ; the drum- 
mer-boy is bespattered with mud and dirt; but 
fortunately the shell does not explode, or the read- 
ers of St. Nichol.\S would never have heard how 
we got our first shelling. 

And no<v, " Fall in, men ! " and we are off on a 
double-quick in a cloud of dust, amid the rattle of 
canteens and tin cups, and the re^guXar Jlop, J?op of 
cartridge-boxes and bayonet-scabbards, pursued 
for two miles by the hot fire of the enemy's batter- 
ies, for a long, hot, weary day's march to the 
extreme right of the army at Chancellorsville. 

( To be conthnted. ) 





Bv Edw.xrd Egclesto.v. 




While the larger boys in the village school of 
Greenbank were having a game of "three old 
cat " before school-time, there appeared on the 
playground a strange boy, carrying two books, a 
slate, and an atlas under his arm. 

He was evidently from the country, for he wore 
a suit of brown jeans, or woolen homespun, made 
up in the natural color of the "black" sheep, as 
we call it. He shyly sidled up to the school-house 
door, and looked doubtfully at the boys who were 
playing; watching the familiar game as though he 
had never seen it before. 

The boys who had the " paddles " were stand- 
ing on three bases, while three others stood each 
behind a base and tossed the ball round the 
triangle from one hole or base to another. The 
new-comer soon perceived that, if one with a 
paddle, or bat, struck at the ball and missed it, 
and the ball was caught directly, or "at the first 

bounce," he gave up his bat to the one who had 
"caught him out." When the ball was struck, 
it was called a " tick," and when there was a tick, 
all the batters were obliged to run one base to the 
left, and then the ball thrown between a batter 
and the base to which he was running "crossed 
him out," and obliged him to give up his "pad- 
dle " to the one who threw the ball. 

" Four old cat," "two old cat," and "five old 
cat" are, as everybody knows, played in the same 
way, the number of bases or holes increasing 
with the addition of each pair of players. 

It is probable that the game was once- — some 
hundreds of years ago, may be — called "three 
hole catch," and that the name was gradually cor- 
rupted into " three hole cat," as it is still called in 
the interior States, and then became changed by 
mistake to "three old cat." It is, no doubt, an 
early form of our present game of base-ball. 

It was this game which the new boy watched, 
trying to get an inkling of how it was played. He 
stood by the school-house door, and the girls who 
came in were obliged to pass near him. Each 




of them stopped to scrape her shoes, or rather the 
girls remembered the foot-scraper because they 
were curious to see the new-comer. Thej' cast 
furtive glances at him, noting his new suit of 
brown clothes, his geography and atlas, his arith- 
metic, and last of all, his face. 

"There 's a new scholar," said Peter Rose, or, 
as he was always called, " Pewee" Rose, a stout 
and stocky boy of fourteen, who had just been 
caught out by another. 

" I say, Greeny, how did you get so brown ? " 
called out Will Riley, a rather large, loose-jointed 

Of course, all the boys laughed at this. Boys 
will sometimes laugh at any one suffering torture, 
whether the victim be a persecuted cat or a per- 
secuted boy. The new boy made no answer, but 
Joanna Merwin, who, just at that moment, hap- 
pened to be scraping her shoes, saw that he grew 
red in the face with a quick flush of anger. 

" Don't stand there. Greeny, or the cows '11 eat 
you up ! " called Riley, as he came around again 
to the base nearest to the school-house. 

Why the boys should have been amused at this 
speech, the new scholar could not tell — the joke 
was neither new nor witty — only impudent and 
coarse. But the little boys about the door giggled. 

" It 's a pity something would n't eat you. Will 
Riley — you are good for nothing but to be mean." 
This sharp speech came from a rather tall and 
graceful girl of sixteen, who came up at the time, 
and who saw the annoyance of the new boy at 
Riley's insulting words. Of course the boys laughed 
again. It was rare sport to hear pretty Susan Lan- 
ham "take down" the impudent Riley. 

" The bees will never eat you for honey, Susan," 
said Will. 

Susan met the titter of the playground with a 
quick ilush of temper and a fine look of scorn. 

" Nothing would eat you, Will, unless, may be, 
a turkey buzzard, and a very hungry one at that." 

This sharp retort was uttered with a merry laugh 
of ridicule, and a graceful toss of the head, as the 
mischievous girl passed into the school-house. 

" That settles you. Will," said Pewee Rose. And 
Bob Holhday began singing, to a doleful tune : 

" Poor old Pidy, 
She died last Friday." 

Just then, the stern face of Mr. Ball, the master, 
appeared at the door; he rapped sharply with his 
ferule, and called: "Books, books, books!" The 
bats were dropped, and the boys and girls began 
streaming into the school, but some of the boys man- 
aged to nudge Riley, saying: "You'd better hold 
your tongue when Susan's around," and such like 
soft and sweet speeches. Riley was vexed and 

angry, but nobody was afraid of him, for a boy 
may be both big and mean and yet lack courage. 

The new boy did not go in at once, but stood 
silently and faced the inquiring looks of the pro- 
cession of boys as they filed into the school-room 
with their faces flushed from the exercise and 
excitement of the games. 

" I can thrash him easy," thought Pewee Rose. 

" He is n't a fellow to back down easily," said 
Han'ey Collins to his next neighbor. 

Only good-natured, rough Bob Holliday stopped 
and spoke to the new-comer a friendly word. All 
that he said was " Hello ! " But how much a boy 
can put into that word " Hello ! " Bob put his 
whole heart into it. and there was no boy in the 
school that had a bigger heart, a bigger hand, or 
nearly so big a foot as Bob Holliday. 

The village school-house was a long one built of 
red brick. It had taken the place of the old log 
institution in which one generation of Greenbank 
children had learned reading, writing, and Web- 
ster's spelling-book. There were long, continuous 
writing-tables down the sides of the room, with 
Ijackless benches, so arranged that when the pupil 
was writing his face was turned toward the wall — 
there was a door at each end, and a box stove 
stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a 
rectangle of four backless benches. These benches 
were for the little fellows who did not write, and for 
others when the cold should drive them nearer the 

The very worshipful master sat at the east end 
of the room, at one side of the door ; there was a 
blackboard — a " new-fangled notion" in 1850 — 
at the other side of the door. Some of the older 
scholars, who could afford private desks with lids to 
them, suitable for concealing smuggled apples and 
maple-sugar, had places at the other end of the 
room from the master. This arrangement was con- 
venient for quiet study, for talking on the fingers 
by signs, for munching apples or gingerbread, and 
for passing little notes between the boys and girls. 

When the school had settled a little, the master 
struck a sharp blow on his desk for silence, and 
looked fiercely around the room, eager to find a 
culprit on whom to wreak his ill-humor. Mr. Ball 
was one of those old-fashioned teachers who gave 
the impression that he would rather beat a boy 
than not, and would even like to eat one, if he could 
finda good excuse. Hiseyelituponthenewscholar. 

" Come here," he said, severely, and then he 
took his seat. 

The new boy walked timidl)- up to a place in 
front of the master's desk. He was not handsome, 
his face was thin, his eyebrows were prominent, 
his mouth was rather large and good-humored, and 
there was that shy twinkle about the corners of his 




eyes which always marks a fun-loving spirit. But 
his was a serious, fine-grained face, with marks of 
suffering in it, and he had the air of having been 
once a strong fellow ; of late, evidently, shaken to 
pieces by the ague. 

" Where do you live ? " demanded Mr. Ball. 

"On Ferry street." 

" What do they call you ? " This was said with 
a contemptuous, rasping inflection that irritated 
the new scholar. His eyes twinkled, partly with 
annoyance and partly with mischief. 

" They call mc Jack, for the most part," — then 
catching the titter that came from the girls' side 
of the room, and frightened by the rising hurri- 
cane on the master's face, he added tiuickly : 
" My name is John Dudley, sir." 

"Don't you tr>' to show your smartness on me, 
young man. You are a new-comer, and 1 let you 
off this time. Answer me that way again, and you 
will remember it as long as you live." And the 
master glared at him like a savage bull about to 
toss somebody over a fence. 

The new boy turned pale, and dropped his head. 

" How old are you ? " " Thirteen." 

"Have you ever been to school?" "Three 

" Three months. Do you know how to read?" 

" Yes, sir," with a smile. 

"Can you cipher?" "Yes, sir." 

" In multiplication ? " " Yes, sir." 

" Long division ? " 

" Yes, sir; I 've been half through fractions." 

"You said you'd been to school but three 
months ! " " My father taught me." 

There was just a touch of pride in his \oice as 
he said this — a sense of something superior about 
his father. This bit of pride angered the master, 
who liked to be thought to have a monopoly of all 
the knowledge in the town. 

" Where have you been living ? " 

" In the Indian Reserve, of late ; I was born in 

" I did n't ask you where you were born. When 
I ask you a question, answer that and no more." 

"Yes, sir." There was a touch of something 
in the tone of this reply that amused the school, 
and that made the master look up quickly and 
suspiciously at Jack Dudley, bvit the expression on 
Jack's face was as innocent as that of a cat who 
has just lapped the cream off the milk. 

Chaptkk II. 


Pewee Rose, whose proper name was Peter 
Rose, had also the nickname of King Pewee. He 

was about fourteen years old, square built and 
active, of great strength for his size, and very 
proud of the fact that no boy in town cared to 
attack him. He was not bad-tempered, but he 
loved to be master, and there were a set of flatter- 
ers who followed him, like jackals about a lion. 

As often happens. Nature had built for King 
Pewee a very fine body, but had forgotten to give 
him any mind to speak of. In any kind of chaff 
or banter, at any sort of talk or play where a good 
head was worth more than a strong arm and a 
broad back. King Pewee was sure to have the 
worst of it. A very convenient partnership had 
therefore grown up between him and Will Kiley. 
Riley had muscle enough, but Nature had made 
him mean-spirited. He had — not exactly wit — 
but a facility for using his tongue, which ho found 
some difficulty in displaying, through fear of other 
boys' fists. By forming a friendship with Pewee 
Rose, the two managed to keep in fear the greater 
part of the school. Will's rough tongue, together 
with Pewee's rude fists, were enough to bully almost 
any boy. They let Harvey Collins alone, because 
he was older, and, keeping to himself, awed them 
by his dignity ; good-natured Bob Holliday also, 
was big enough to take care of himself. But the 
rest were all as much afraid of Pewee as thc)' were 
of the master, and as Riley managed Pewee, it 
behooved them to be afraid of the prime minister, 
Riley, as well as of King Pewee. 

From the first day that Jack Dudley entered the 
school, dressed in brown jeans, Will Riley marked 
him for a victim. The air of refinement about his 
face showed him to be a suitable person for teasing. 

Riley called him "milksop," and "sap-head"; 
words which seemed to the dull intellect of King 
Pewee exceedingly witty. And as Pewee was 
Riley's defender, he felt as proud of these rude 
nicknames as he would had he invented them 
and taken out a patent. 

But Riley's greatest stroke of wit came one 
morning when he caught Jack Dudley milking the 
cow. In the village of Greenbank, milking a cow 
was regarded as a woman's work; and foolish 
men and boys are like savages, — very much 
ashamed to be found doing a woman's work. Fools 
always think something else more disgraceful than 
idleness. So, having seen Jack milking, Riley 
came to school happy. He had an arrow to shoot 
that would give great delight to the small boys. 

"Good-morning, milkmaid!" he said to Jack 
Dudley, as he entered the school-house before 
school. " You milk the cow at your house, do 
you ? Where 's your apron ? " 

"Oh-h! Milkmaid! milkmaid! That 's a 
good one," chimed in Pewee Rose and all his set. 

Jack changed color. 




" Well, what if I do milk my mother's cow ? 
I don't milk anybody's cow but ours, do I ? 
Do you think I 'm ashamed of it ? I 'd be 
ashamed not to. I can" — but he stopped a min- 
ute and blushed — " I can wash dishes, and make 
good pancakes, too. Now if you want to make 
fun, why, make fun. I don't care." But he did 
care, else why should his voice choke in that way ? 

"Oh, girl-boy; a pretty girl-boy you are " 

but here Will Riley stopped and stammered. 
There right in front of him was the smiling face of 
Susan Lanham, with a look in it which made him 
suddenly remember something. Susan had heard 
all the conversation, and now she came around 
in front of Will, while all the other girls clustered 
about her from a vague expectation of sport. 

" Come, Pewee, let 's play ball," said Will. 

"Ah, you 're running away, now; you 're afraid 
of a girl," said Susan, with a cutting little laugh, 
and a toss of her black curls over her shoulder. 

Will had already started for the ball-ground, 
but at this taunt he turned back, thrust his hands 
into his pockets, put on a swagger, and stam- 
mered: "No, I 'm not afraid of a girl, either." 

" That 's about all that he is n't afraid of," said 
Bob Holliday. 

" Oh ! you 're not afraid of a girl ? " said Susan. 
" What did you run away for, when you saw me ? 
You know that Pevvec wont fight a girl. You *re 
afraid of anybody that Pewee can't whip." 

" You 've an awful tongue, Susan. We '11 call you 
Sassy Susan," said Will, laughing at his own joke. 

" Oh, it is n't my tongue you 're afraid of now. 
You know I can tell on you. I saw you drive your 
cow into the stable last week. You were ashamed 
to milk outside, but you looked all around " 

"I did n't do it. How could you see? It was 
dark," and Will giggled foolishly, seeing all at 
once that he had betrayed himself. 

" It was nearly dark, but I happened to be 
where I could see. And as I was coming back, a 
few minutes after, I saw you come out with a pail 
of milk, and looking around you like a sneak-thief 
You saw me and hurried away. You are such a 
coward that you are ashamed to do a little honest 
work. Milkmaid ! Girl-boy ! Coward ! And Pe- 
wee Rose lets you lead him around by the nose ! " 

" You 'd better be careful what you say, Susan," 
said Pewee, threateningly. 

" You wont touch me. You go about bullying 
little boys, and calling yourself King Pewee, but 
you can't do a sum in long division, nor in short 
subtraction, for that matter, and you let fellows 
like Riley make a fool of you. Your father 's poor, 
and your mother can't keep a girl, and you ought 
to be ashamed to let her milk the cow. Who 
milked your cow this morning, Pewee ? " 

" I don't know," said the king, looking like the 
king's fool. 

" You did it,"said Susan. "Don't deny it. Then 
you come here and call a strange boy a milkmaid ! " 

" Well, 1 did n't milk in the street, anyway, and 
he did." At this, all laughed aloud, and Susan's vic- 
tory «as complete. She only said, with a pretty toss 
of her head, as she turned away : "King Milkmaid!" 

Pewee found the nickname likely to stick. He 
was obliged to declare on the playground the next 
day, that he would "thrash" any boy that said 
anything about milkmaids. After that, he heard 
no more of it. But one morning he found " King 
Milkmaid " written on the door of his father's cow- 
stable. Some boy who dared not attack Pewee, 
had vented his irritation by w-riting the hateful 
words on the stable, and on the fence-comers near 
the school-house, and even on the blackboard. 

Pewee could not fight with Susan Lanham, but 
he made up his mind to punish the new scholar 
when he should have a chance. He must give some- 
body a beating. 

Ch.\pter III. 


It is hard for one boy to make a fight. Even 
your bully docs not like to " pitch on" an inoffen- 
sive school-mate. You remember yEsop's fable of 
the wolf and the lamb, and what pains the wolf 
took to pick a quarrel with the lamb. It was a lit- 
tle hard for Pewee to fight with a boy who walked 
quietly to and from the school, without giving any- 
body cause for offense. 

But the chief reason why Pewee did not attack 
him with his fists was that both he and Riley had 
found out that Jack Dudley could help them over a 
hard place in their lessons better than anybody else. 
And notwithstanding their continual persecution 
of Jack, they were mean enough to ask his assist- 
ance, and he, hoping to bring about peace by 
good-nature, helped them to get out their geogra- 
phy and arithmetic almost every day. Unable to 
appreciate this, they were both convinced that 
Tack only did it because he was afraid of them, 
and as they found it rare sport to abuse him, they 
kept it up. By their influence, Jack was shut out 
of the plays. A greenhorn would spoil the game, 
they said. What did a boy that had lived on 
Wildcat Creek, in the Indian Reserve, know about 
playing buffalo, or prisoner's base, or shinny ? If 
he was brought in, they would go out. 

But the girls, and the small boys, and good- 
hearted Bob Holliday liked Jack's company very- 
much. Yet, Jack was a boy, and he often longed 
to play games with the others. He felt very sure 
that hecould dodge and run in "buffalo" as well as 

THE 1 1 O O S I E R S C H ( M ) L - H O Y - 


any of them. He was very tired of Riley's contin- 
ual ridicule, whicli grew worse as Riley saw in hiin 
a rival in influence with the smaller boys. 

" Catch Will alone sometime," said Hob Hol- 
iday, ■' when Pewee is n't with him, and then thrash 
him. He '11 back right down if you bristle up to 
him. If Pcwec makes a fuss about it, I '11 look 
after Pewee. 1 'm bigger than he is, and he wont 
fight with me. What do you say ? " 

" I sha' n't fight unless I have to." 

"Afraid?" asked Hob, laughing. 

" It is n't that. 1 don't think I 'm much afraid, al- 
though I don't like to be pounded or to jxjund any- 
body. 1 think I 'd rather be whipped than to be 
made fun of, though. But my father used to say 
that people who fight generally do so because they 
are afraid of somebody else, more than they are of 
the one they fight with." 

" I belie%e that 's a fact," said Bob. '• Hut 
Riley aches for a good thrashing." 

" I know that, and 1 feel like giving him one, 
or taking one myself, and I think 1 shall fight him 
before 1 've done. Hut Father used to say that 
fists could never settle between right and wrong. 
They onh' show which is the stronger, and it is 
generally the mean one that gets the best of it." 

" That 's as sure as shootin'," said Hob. " Pewee 
could use you up. Pewee thinks he 's the king, 
but laws ! he 's only Riley's bull-dog. Riley is 
afraid of him, but he manages to keep the dog on 
his side all the time." 

"My father used to say," said Jack, "that 
brutes could fight with force, but men ought to 
use their wits." 

" You seem to think a good deal of what your 
father says, — like it was your Hible, you know." 

" My father 's dead," replied Jack. 

" Oh, that 's why. Hoys don't always pay atten- 
tion to what their father says when he 's alive." 

"Oh, but then my father was " Here 

Jack checked himself, for fear of seeming to boast. 
" You see," he went on, " my father knew a great 
deal. He was so busy with his books that he lost 
'most all his money, and then we moved to the 
Indian Reserve, and there he took the fever and 
died; and then wc came down here, where we 
owned a house, so that I could go to school." 

"Why don't you give Will Riley as good as he 
sends?" said Bob, wishing to get away from 
melancholy subjects. " You ha\'e as good a tongue 
as his." 

" I have n't his stock of bad words, though." 

" You 'vc got a power of fun in you, though, 
— you keep everybody laughing when you want to, 
and if you 'd only turn the pumps on him once, 
he 'd howl like a yellow dog that 's had a quart o' 
hot suds poured over him out of a neighbor's win- 

dow. Use your wits, like your fether said. You 
've lived in the woods till you 're as shy as a flying- 
squirrel. All you 've got to do is to talk up and 
take it rough and tumble, like the rest of the 
world. Riley can't bear to be laughed at, and you 
can make him ridiculous as easy as not." 

The next day, at the noon recess, about the time 
that Jack had finished helping Bob Holliday to 
find some places on the map, there came up a little 
shower, and the boys took refuge in the school- 
house. They must have some amusement, so 
Riley began his old abuse. 

" Well, greenhorn from the Wildcat, where 's the 
black sheep you stole that suit of clothes from?" 

"1 hear him bleat now," said Jack, — "about 
the blackest sheep I have ever seen." 

" You 've heard the truth for once, Riley," said 
Hob Holliday. 

Riley, who was as vain as a peacock, was very 
inuch mortified by the shout of applause with 
which this little joke of Jack's was greeted. It was 
not a case in which he could call in King Pewee. 
The king, for his part, shut up his fists and looked 
silly, while faint-hearted Jack took courage to keep 
up the battle. Hut Riley tried again. 

" I say. Wildcat, you think you 're smart, but 
you 're a double-distilled idiot, and have n't got 
brains enough to be sensible of your misery." 

This kind of outburst on Riley's part always 
brought a laugh from the school. But before the 
laugh had died down. Jack Dudley took the word, 
saying, in a dry and quizzical way : 

"Don't you try to claim kin with me that way, 
Riley. No use ; I wont stand it. 1 don't belong to 
your family. I 'm neither a fool nor a coward." 

" Hurrah ! " shouted Bob Holliday. bringing 
down first one and then the other of his big feet 
on the floor. " It 's your put-in now, Riley." 

" Don't be backward in coming forward. Will, 
as the Irish priest said to his people," came from 
grave Har\-ey Collins, who here looked up from his 
book, thoroughly enjoying the bully's discomfiture. 

"That's awfully good," said Joanna Merwin, 
clasping her h.mds and giggling with delight. 

King Pewee doubled up his fists and looked at 
Riley to see if he ought to try his sort of wit on 
Jack. If a frog, being pelted to death by cruel 
boys, should turn and pelt them again, they could 
not be more surprised than were Riley and King 
Pewee at Jack's repartees. 

" You 'd better be careful what you say to Will 
Riley," said Pewee. " I stand by him." 

But Jack's blood was up now, and he was not 
to be frightened. " All the more shame to him," 
said Jack. "Look at me, shaken all to pieces with 
the fever and ague on the Wildcat, and look at that 
great big, bony coward of a Riley. I 've done 




him no harm, but he wants to abuse me, and he 's 
afraid of me. He dare n't touch me. He has to 
coax you to stand by him, to protect him from 
poor little me. He 's a great big " 

" Calf," broke in Bob Holliday, with a laugh. 

"You'd better be careful," said Pewee to Jack, 
rising to his feet. " I stand by Riley." 

"Will you defend him if I hit him ? " "Yes." 

"Well, then, I wont hit him. But you don't 
mean that he is to abuse me, while 1 am not allowed 
to answer back a word ? " 

"Well " said Pewee, hesitatingly. 

" Well," said Bob Holliday, hotly, " I say that 
Jack has just as good a right to talk with his 
tongue as Riley. Stand by Riley if he 's hit, 
Pewee : he needs it. But don't you try to shut up 
Jack." And Bob got up and put his broad hand 
■on Jack's shoulder. Nobody had ever seen the 
big fellow angry before, and the excitement was 
very great. The girls clapped their hands. 

"Good for you, Bob, I say," came from Susan 
Lanham, and poor ungainly Bob blushed to his 
hair to find himself the hero of the girls. 

" I don't mean to shut up Jack," said Pewee, 
looking at Bob's size, "but I stand by Riley." 

"Well, do your standing sitting down, then," 
said Susan. "1 '11 get a milking-stool for you, if 
that'll keep you quiet." 

It was well that the master came in just then, or 
Pewee would have had to fight somebody or burst. 

Chapter IV. 


Jack's life in school was much more endurable 
now that he had a friend in Bob Holliday. Bob 
had spent his time in hard work and in rough 
surroundings, but he had a gentleman's soul, 
although his manners and speech were rude. More 
and more Jack found himself drawn to him. Har- 
vey Collins asked Jack to walk down to the river- 
bank with him at recess. Both Harvey and Bob 
soon liked Jack, who found himself no longer 
lonel)'. The girls also sought his advice about 
their lessons, and the younger boys were inclined 
to come over to his side. 

As winter came on, country boys, anxious to 
learn something about "reading, writing, and ci- 
phering," came into the school. Each of these 
new-comers had to go through a certain amount 
of teasing from Riley and of bullying from Pewee. 

One frosty morning in December, there ap- 
peared among the new scholars a strange little 
fellow with a large head, long straight hair, an 
emaciated body, and legs that looked like reeds, 
they were so slender. His clothes were worn and 
patched, and he had a look of being frost-bitten. 

He could not have been more than ten years old, 
to judge by his size, but there was a look of pre- 
mature oldness in his face. 

" Come here ! " said the master, when he caught 
sight of him. "What is your name?" And 
Mr. Ball took out his book to register the new- 
comer, with much the same relish that the Giant 
Despair in Pilgrim's Progress showed when he had 
bagged a fresh pilgrim. 

"Columbus Risdale." The new-comer spoke 
in a shrill, piping voice, as strange as his weird face 
and withered body. 

" Is that your full name ? " asked the master. 

"No, sir," piped the strange little creature. 

"Give your full name," said Mr. Ball, sternly. 

" My name is Christopher Columbus George 
Washington Marquis de Lafayette Risdale." The 
poor lad was the victim of that mania which some 
people have for "naming after" great men. His 
little shrunken body and high, piping voice made 
his name seem so incongruous that all the school 
tittered, and many laughed outright. But the dig- 
nified and eccentric little fellow did not observe it. 

" Can you read ? " 

"Yes, sir," said the lad, more shrilly than ever. 

" Umph," said the master, with a look of doubt 
on his face. " In the first reader ? " 

" No, sir; in the fourth reader." 

Even the master could not conceal his look of 
astonishment at this claim. At that day, the 
fourth-reader class was the highest in the school, 
and contained only the largest scholars. The 
school laughed at the bare notion of little Chris- 
topher Columbus reading in the fourth reader, 
and the little fellow looked around the room, 
puzzled to guess the cause of the merriment. 

"We'll try you," said the master, with suspi- 
cion. When the fourth-reader class was called, 
and Harvey Collins and Susan Lanham and some 
others of the nearly grown-up pupils came forward, 
with Jack Dudley as quite the youngest of the 
class, the great-eyed, emaciated little Columbus 
Risdale picked himself up on his pipe-stems and 
took his place at the end of this row. 

It was too funny for anything ! 

Will Riley and Pewee and other large scholars, 
who were yet reading in that old McGufiey's Third 
Reader, which had a solitary picture of Bonaparte 
crossing the Alps, looked with no kindly eyes on 
this preposterous infant in the class ahead of them. 

The piece to be read was the poem of Mrs. He- 
mans's called " The Better Land." Poems like 
this one are rather out of fashion nowadays, and 
people are inclined to laugh a little at Mrs. He- 
mans. But thirty years ago her religious and 
sentimental poetry was greatly esteemed. This 
one presented no difficulty to the readers. In that 




day. little or noattention was paid to inflection — the 
main endeavor being to pronounce the words with- 
out hesitation or slip, and to " mind the stops." 
Each one of the class read a stanza ending with a line : 

"Not there, not there, my child! " 

The poem was exhausted before all had read, so 
that it «as necessary to begin over again in order 
to give each one his turn. All waited to hear the 
little Columbus read. When it came his turn, the 
school was as still as death. The master, wishing 
to test him, told him, with something like a sneer, 
that he could read three stanzas, or "verses," as 
Mr. Hall called them. 

The little chap squared his toes, threw his head 
back, and more fluently even than the rest, he read, 
in hisshrill,eager voice, the remaining lines, winding 
up each stanza in a condescending tone, as he read : 

'* Not there, not there, my child ! " 

The efTect of this from the hundred-year-old 
baby was so striking and so ludicrous that every- 
body was amused, while all were surprised at the 
excellence of his reading. The master proceeded, 
howe\er, to whip one or two of the boys for laughing. 

When recess-time arrived, Susan Lanham came 
to Jack with a request. 

'• I wish you 'd look after little Lummy Risdale. 
He 's a sort of cousin of my mother's. He is as 
innocent and helpless as the babes in the wood." 

" I '11 take care of him," said Jack. 

So he took the little fellow walking away from the 
school-house ; Will Riley and some of the others 
calhng after them: "Not there, not there, my 
child ! " 

But Columbus did not lay their taunts to heart. 
He was soon busy talking to Jack about things in 
the country, and things in town. On their return, 
Riley, crying out : " Not there, my child ! " threw a 
snow-ball from a distance of ten feet and struck the 
poor little Christopher Columbus George Washing- 
ton Lafayette so severe a blow as to throw him off 
his feet. Quick as a flash, Jack charged on Riley, 
and sent a snow-ball into his face. An instant 
later, he tripped him with his foot and rolled the 
big, scared fellow into the snow and washed bis 
face well, leaving half a snow-bank down his back. 

"What makes you so savage ? " whined Riley. 
"I did n't snow-ball you." And Riley looked 
around for Pewee, who was on the other side of the 
school-house, and out of sight of the scuffle. 

" No, you dare n't snow-ball me," said Jack, 
squeezing another ball and throwing it into Riley's 
shirt-front with a certainty of aim that showed that 
he knew how to play ball. " Take that one, too, 
and if you bother Lum Risdale again, I '11 make 
you pay for it. Take a boy of your size." And 
with that he molded yet another ball, but Riley 
retreated to the other side of the school-house. 

(To be continued.} 




One Christ- 
mas day at Grand- 
mamma's, we all dressed 
up, for fun ; and sat in a line and 
called them in to look when we were 
done. We never laughed a single time, 
but sat in a solemn row. Tomm\' was Queen Eliza- 
beth, and Jane had an Alsace bow. Freddy was 
bound to be a nun (though he did n't look it, a 
bit ! ) and Katy made a Welsh-woman's hat and 
sat down under it. Sister was Madame de Main- 
tenon, or some such Frenchy dame ; and Jack had 
a Roman toga on, and took a classic name. As for 

poor me, 1 really think 1 came out best of all, 
though I had n't a thing for dressing up, 'cept 
Dinah's bonnet and shawl. Well, Grandma 
laughed, and Grandpa laughed, and all admired 
the show, — 1 wish I 'd seen us sitting there, so 
solemn, in a row ! 


13 V \\'. H. \^ENABLli. 

The area of the original thirteen States, a century 
ago, was less than one-eleventh as great as that of 
our entire country now, and their population did not 
reach one-fifteenth the number at present within 
the nation's borders. New York, Pennsylvania, 
Ohio, and Illinois each had as many inhabitants in 
1870 as the united colonies had in the year 1770. 

A hundred years ago, the region west of the 
Alleghanies was styled The Wilderness, and only a 
few bold spirits, like Daniel Boone, had dared to 
penetrate its solitude. The Rocky, then called 
Stony, Mountains were known to exist, but no 
white man had e.\plored them. Even within this 
century, the belief was held that the Missouri River 
had some connection with the Pacific Ocean. 

The journey from Baltimore to Pittsburgh took 

twelve days, and was not only toilsome, but dan- 
gerous, for hostile Indians lurked in the woods. 
Wagons often stuck fast in the mire, or broke 
down on " corduroy " roads made of logs laid side 
by side in the mud. The heavy stage-coach of 
early times, although it made great show of speed 
when dashing through a village, was as long in 
lumbering from New York to Boston as a mod- 
ern express train is in crossing the continent. In 
great contrast with the present mode of traveling 
was the journey made by Thomas Jefferson, in 
the year 1775, when he went in a carriage from 
Williamsburg, Virginia, to Philadelphia. He was 
ten days on the road, and twice was obliged to 
hire a guide, to show the way to the largest citj' 
in the country. In 1777, Elkanah Watson rode 



from Newbcrn to Wilmington, North Carolina, The life and habits of the common people were 
on horseback, and not only lost his way, but extremely simple. The furniture of an ordinary 
was embarrassed further by meeting a large bear, house, in 1 776, was scanty, plain, and cheap. 

A person traveling in New England, about a 
century ago, would have found there a frugal and 
industrious people, dwelling generally in or near 
villages, and employed mainly in trade and tillage. 
He might have seen, in the older towns, factories 

In many houses, the floor had no carpet, and the 
walls of that day had no paper nor paint. Neither 
pumps nor cooking-stoves were in use. The sofa 
was a high-backed bench of unpainted wood. The 
rude, low bedstead was honored almost always with 
a coat of green paint. The sewing-machine was 

I :;v^^ 


for the making of cloth, hats, shoes, axes, ropes, not dreamed of; but the spinning-wheel, flax-dis- 

paper, and guns ; and with a sail-boat he might taff, and yarn-reel found a place in all houses, 

have visited flourishing fisheries off the coast, and the weaver's loom could be seen in many. 

Vol. IX.— II. 




Queen's-ware, or glazed earthenware, was un- 
known, yet well-to-do families often had sets of 
small china cups and saucers. The rich took pride 
in displaying urns and salvers of pure silver. There 
was no plated ware. The table was set with dishes 
of wood and of pewter. 

Our forefothers depended upon the tallow-candle 
and the lard-oil lamp for artificial light. They 
knew nothing of kerosene, gas, and sulphur 
matches. The embers in the fire-place were sel- 
•dom suffered to burn out, but when the last coal 
chanced to expire, the fire was rekindled by strik- 

powdered wigs, three-cornered hats, and swords. 
Women's dresses were made of heavy silks and 
satins, called brocades, on which raised figures of 
leaves and flowers were woven, or worked, in col- 
ored silk or thread of silver and gold. 

Both sexes took pains in dressing the hair. A 
stylish gentleman had his locks curled and frizzed, 
or suspended in a queue, as you have often seen 
in old pictures. A New England belle spent many 
hours in plastering her hair up into a sort of tower, 
decorated with powder and ribbons. 

There were few, if any, millionaires in the early 

ing a spark from a flint into a piece of tinder. 
Sometimes a burning brand was borrowed from 
the hearth of a neighbor. 

The dress of the common folk in town and 
country was more for use than beauty. A pair of 
buckskin breeches and a corduroy coat formed the 
essentials of a man's suit, and they never wore out. 
After the breeches had been rained upon a few 
times they hardened into a garment more durable 
than comfortable. 

The wearing-apparel of fashionable people of 
the city, however, was \-ery gay and picturesque. 
Men wore knee-breeches and hose, broad-skirted 
coats lined with buckram, long waistcoats, some- 
times of gold-cloth, wide cuffs lined with lace. 

days of the Republic, and the power of money was 
not felt as it is now. However, the aristocracy was 
less approachable by the common people than are 
the higher circles of to-day, or, probably, of the 
future. This was owing to the fact that, at that 
time, American society was mainly copied after the 
English system, in which rank and title play an 
important part ; and also to the influence of slavery, 
which existed in all the States. 

Magistrates and clerg\men were regarded, in 
New England, with extreme respect and rever- 
ence. Had our traveler dropped into a Puritan 
meeting-house, and sat through the ser\'ice, he 
would have seen the minister and his family walk 




solemnly down the aisle and through the door-way 

before the congregation presumed to leave the pews. 

The New England countr)- people combined 

^) ■mil \m\ 




amusement with work, at their house-raisings, 
quilling parties, and like gatherings. The poet 
Bryant speaks of the process of cider-making as 
one that "came in among the more laborious 
rural occupations in a way which diversified them 
pleasantly, and which made it seem a pastime. 

A hundred barrels to a single farm was no uncom- 
mon proportion." 

" But," says Doctor Greene, in his charming 
Short History of Rhode Island, "the gieat pas- 
time for young and old, for matron and maid, 
and for youth just blushing into manhood, was the 
autumn husking, where neighbors met at each 
other's corn-yards to husk each other's corn — 
sometimes husking a thousand bushels in a single 
meeting. Husking had its laws, and never were 
laws better obeyed. For every red ear, the lucky 
swain who had found it could claim a kiss from 
every maid ; with every smutted car he smutched 
the faces of his mates, amid laughter and joyous 
shoutings ; but when the prize fell to a girl, she 
would walk the round demurely, look each eager 
aspirant in the face, and hide or reveal the secret 
of her heart by a kiss. Then came the dance and 
supper, running deep into the night, and often 
encroaching upon the early dawn." 

Our traveler would be interested in Salem, next 
to the largest town in New England, and a flour- 
ishing sea-port; and he certainly would have gone 
to Boston, then, as now, a center of education and 
culture. Many of the streets of Boston were nar- 
row and crooked. Shops and inns were distin- 
guished in Boston, as in other cities and towns, by 
pictorial signs for the benefit of those who could 
not read. One did not look for a lettered board, 
nor a number over the street door, but for the sign 
of the " Bunch of Feathers," the " Golden Key," 
the " Dog and Pot," or the " Three Doves." 

<o™cUii\.cs 4 5vr.Cvn£, Jri^? *is \."<To»c4|fts^'*icWMV«{a f^kc- 

The time that was given to making cider, and the Had our traveler passed from New England to 
number of barrels made and stored in the cellars the State of New York, say at Albany, he would 
of the farm-houses, would now seem incredible, have had evidence that the frontier was not far off. 




Goods sent from Albany to supply the Indian trade, 
and the forts and settlements out West, were hauled 
in wagons to Schenectady, then loaded in light 
boats, and poled up the Mohawk to Fort Schuyler, 
then carried across to Wood Creek, and again 
transported in boats down Oneida Lake and Osage 
River to the great lakes. The town of Albany 
was, at that time, a quiet, shady, delightful place, 
with cow-bells tinkling in the streets. Lazy In- 
dians went lounging about the principal thorough- 
fares with bead-work and baskets to sell. 

New York State continued to show evidence of 


Dutch customs, as could be seen by going down the 
Hudson from Albany to Manhattan Island. The 
trip was taken in regular passenger sloops. The 
scenery along the Hudson was grander than now, 
for the wild forest had not disappeared from the 
hills. The passenger saw no large towns nor vil- 
lages, but farm-houses nestled in the rich hollows, 
and the Dutch "bouweries" or farms spread to 
view broad acres of corn and tobacco, and thrifty 
orchards of apple and pear trees. Just below Al- 
bany the family mansion and great barns of Gen- 
eral Schuyler used to stand. The good general 
had many negro slaves, — indolent fellows, who 

were scared into occasional fits of work by the 
threat that they should be sent to the West Indies, 
and traded off for rum and molasses. 

New York City was an important commercial 
center, larger than Boston, but not so large as 
Philadelphia. It occupied but a small part of the 
southern end of Manhattan Island, the whole of 
which it now covers. Most of its streets were nar- 
row and crooked. Tradition says that the Dutch 
settlers built their houses along the winding courses 
of cow-paths. Broadway, however, was a fine 
street, even in the days of the Revolution, and gave 
promise then of the splendor it 
afterward attained. New York 
City, in 1776, was lighted dimly 
with oil-lamps. Burning gas 
did not come into use till forty 
years later. Not unusually the 
New York houses were built 
with a flat space on the roof, 
surrounded by a railing, and 
where the people came out on 
the house-tops on summer even- 
ings to enjoy the pleasant breeze 
from the bay. 

Our traveler would have \is- 
ited Philadelphia, the largest 
city in America, and the capital 
of the Republic. There he 
might have seen many evi- 
dences of wealth and social re- 
finement. There were to be 
found noted public men from 
different parts of the countrj'. 
The wise and benevolent Frank- 
lin lived there. There Congress 
met, and there Washington 
dwelt during the greater part 
of his administrations. 

Philadelphia society claimed 
to lead the fashion in dress and 
amusements, though New York, 
Williamsburg, Charleston, and 
other places disputed this pre- 
Fashionable people frequently gave 
The lady guests, robed in 



formal dinner-parties, 
their stiff brocades, were handed from their coaches 
and sedans, and daintily stepped to the door of the 
reception-room. A sedan was a covered chair for 
carrying a single person, borne on poles in the hands 
of two men, usually negroes. The dinner consisted 
of four courses, with abundance of wine. The health 
of every guest at table had to be drunk separately, 
at least once during the sitting, as to neglect this 
compliment was considered a breach of politeness. 
After dinner, a game of whist was in order. 
Smoking was not fashionable, but every gentleman 



carried a snuff-box, and the act of offering and 
receiving a pinch of snuff was performed with 
profound ceremony. 

IJancing was a favor- 
ite amusement in all 
parts of the country. 
General Greene tells 
us that, on a certain 
occasion, GeorgeW'ash- 
ington danced for three 
hours without once sit- 
ting down. No doubt 
the stately Virginian 
chose to tread the dij;- 
nified measure of the 
contra-dance rather 
than to trip through 
the lighter movements 
of the minuet. The 
quadrilles and rouii* 
dances of our day wer 
unknown in 1776. 

The violin was hel ! 
in high esteem, esp 
cially in the Middl' 
and Southern State-. 
Thomas Jefferson saiil 
of Patrick Henry, that 
"his passion was for 
liddling, dancing, and 
pleasantry." Jefferson was himself fa- 
mous for attending balls. Once, when he 
was away from home, his father's house 
burned down. A slave was sent to tell this 
bad news to his young master Thomas. 
"Did n't you sa\e any of my books ?" 
asked the future author of the Declara- 
tion of Independence. 

" No, massa," answered the ebony 
messenger ; '• but we saved the fiddle ! " 
It was customary for young ladies to 
take lessons on the harpsichord or the 
spinet, as they do nowadays on the 

Our traveler, extending his journey 
to the Southern States, would have 
found few towns of considerable size, 
excepting Williamsburg and Richmond, 
in Virginia, and Charleston, South 
Carolina. Wealthy planters of cotton 
and rice owned most of the fertile land. 
The Fairfax estate, on the I'otomac, 
had five million acres. It was quite an 
expedition to go from one planter's 
house to another, for the distance, in 
some cases, was as much as ten or twelve miles, 
and the roads were bad. When a visit was under- 

taken, the great family coach, drawn by four or 
six horses, driven by a pompous black coachman, 
conveyed the ladies, while the gentlemen of 
the party went on horseback. Not unfrcqucntly 
ladies rode behind gentlemen, mounted on 
cushions, called pillions ; but the more inde- 
pendent of the "fair sex" preferred to manage 
their own palfrey, and to grace the saddle 
alone. Colored servants, riding upon mules, 
jogged after their masters and mistresses, to 
carry bandboxes and parcels, and to open gates. 
Southern estates were distinguished by de- 
scriptive names, such as " Mount Vernon," 
" Monticello," " Ingleside," " The Oaks." 
Particular mansions were known, also, by ro- 
mantic titles, — such as " Bclvoir," "Liberty 
Hall," " Greenway Court," — reminding us of 
old English manor-houses. Such Southern 
mansions were large and strongly built, and 
some of them were costly and elegant. " Dray- 
ton Hall," on Ashley River, cost ninety thou- 
sand dollars — a vast sum to spend on a house 



at the period of which I write. "Drayton Hall" is 
yet standing, a fair specimen of old-fashioned 




architecture. The wainscot and mantels are of solid 
mahogany. The walls were once hung with tapestry. 

The planters, like the 
English rural gentry, laid 
off their grounds with ter- 
races, hedges, and ponds; 
and adorned them with 
shrubbery, summer-houses, 
and statuary. Many lived 
at ease in the midst of 
plenty. They had much 
pride, and looked down 
upon the laboring and trad- 
ing classes of the North. 
All their work was done by 
slaves. The planters' sons 
were sent to the mother 
country to be educated. 
The daughters were in- 
structed by private tutors. 

Most fine gentlemen were fond of fine horses 
and dogs. There is a flavor of romance in the 
page of history that tells of Washington and his 
friends dashing through the forests of the Old 
Dominion, to the music of hound and horn. 

The times of which this article treats are often 
spoken of as the "good old days" of our ances- 
tors ; we should be strangely at loss if we had to 


should consider it inconvenient enough to do with- 
out steam-boat, railroad, telegraph, and daily news- 
paper, not to mention horse- 
cars, express companies, 
letter-carriers, and the tel- 

The farmer of 1776 had 
no grain-drill, harvester, 
or threshing-machine ; and 
even his plow, ax, and 
hay-fork were so rude and 
clumsy that a modern 
laborer would laugh at 

How great, to-day, should 
we regard the general loss, 
were the shipper deprived 
of his grain-elevator ; the 
merchant of his fire-proof 
safe ; the publisher of his 
revolving press ; the surgeon of the use of ether ; 
the physician of vaccination ; the cripple of arti- 
ficial limbs ; the writer of envelopes and metallic 
pens ; the ladies of pins, and hooks and eyes ; 
the soldier of his breech-loading gun ! All the 
articles and arts above enumerated, and many 
more now considered essential to comfort and 
convenience, are of modern invention. A hundred 

live in the good old ways of the last centurj'. We years ago they did not exist. 


Bv Joel Stacy. 

Mr. Tennyson Tinkleton Tupper von Burns 

Was no poet, as every one knew ; 
But the fact that he had his poetical turns 

Was well understood by a few. 

" I long, I aspire, and I suffer and sigh, 
When the fever is on," he confessed; 

"Yet never a line have I writ, — and for why? 
My fancies can not be expressed ! 

"Ah, what avail language, ink, paper, and quill. 
When the soul of a gifted one yearns ; 

Could 1 write what 1 think, all creation would 
Said Tennyson Tupper von Burns. 




By James Baldwin. 

The Fore Word. 

When the world was in its childhood, men 
looked upon the works of Nature with a strange 
kind of awe. They fancied that everything upon 
the earth, in the air, or in the water had a life like 
their own, and that every sight which they saw, 
and every sound which they heard, was caused by 
some intelligent being. All men were poets, so far 
as their ideas and their modes of expression were 
concerned, although it is not likely that any of 
them wrote poetry. This was true in regard to 
the Saxon in his chilly northern home, as well as 
to the Greek in the sunny southland. But, while 
the balmy air and clear sky of the south tended to 
refine men's thoughts and language, the bleak 
storms of the north made them rugged, bold, and 

Thus, in the south, when reference was made to 
winter and to things connected with it, men did 
not take pains to explain the changes of the sco-Sons, 
as our teachers do at school ; but they probably 
told how Hermes had stolen Persephone (the sum- 
mer) from her mother Demctre (the earth), and 
had carried her in a chariot, drawn by four coal- 
black steeds, to the gloomy land of Hades; and 
how, in sorrow for her absence, the earth was 
clothed in mourning, and no leaves grew upon the 
trees nor flowers in the garden. And they added 
that, after five or six months, Persephone would 
return for a time to her sorrowing mother, and 
then the flowers would bloom, and the trees would 
bear fruit, and the harvest-fields would be full of 
golden grain. 

In the north, a different story was told, but the 
meaning was the same. They said that Loki (heat) 
had betrayed Balder (the sunlight), and induced 
blind Hoder (the winter months) to slay him ; and 
that all things, living and inanimate, wept for the 
bright god until Death allowed him to revisit the 
earth for a time. 

Sometimes men told how Odin (the All-Father) 
had become angry with Brunhild (the maid of 
spring), and had wounded her with the thorn of 
sleep, and how all the world was wrapped in silence 
until Sigurd or Siegfried (the sunbeam) awakened 
her with a kiss. So, also, when the sun arose, and 
scattered the darkness, men spoke of how a noble 
young hero had slain a dreadful dragon, or how 
he had taken possession of the golden treasures 
of Mist Land. When threatening clouds darkened 

the sky, and thunder rolled overhead, they said 
that Thor was battling with the storm-giants. 

It was thus that men, in the earlier ages of the 
world, spoke of all the workings of Nature, and in 
this manner many myths, or poetical fables, were 
formed, which embody some of the most beautiful 
ideas ever expressed in any language. By and by, 
the first meaning of the story was forgotten, and 
men began to regard it no longer as a poetical 
fancy, but as a historical fact. Perhaps some real 
hero had performed noble deeds, and had made the 
world around him happier and better. It was easy 
to compare him with Sigurd, or some mjthical 
slayer of dragons, and soon the deeds of both were 
ascribed to but one. Thus you see that many 
myth-stories probably contain some historical facts, 
as well as poetical fancies ; but it is often impossi- 
ble to distinguish what is history from what is fable. 

All nations have had their myth-stories, but, to 
my mind, the purest and grandest are those which 
we have received from our ancestors who once 
lived in Northern Europe. These stories are ours 
now, because they are our inheritance ; and when 
we are able to make them still more our own, by 
removing the blemishes which rude and barbarous 
ages have added to some of them, we shall doubt- 
less find in them many things that are beautiful 
and true, and well calculated to make us wiser and 

One of the oldest, as well as one of the finest, of 
these Northern myths, is the story of Sigurd, the 
son of Sigmund. But, while this story contains 
much that is grand and beautiful, it is somewhat 
tarnished with the prevailing coarseness of a rude 
and war-loving people. There are many later ver- 
sions of the same myth, differing from one another, 
according to the time in which they were written, 
and the character of the people among whom they 
were received. One of the most recent of these 
versions is the Nibelungcn Lied, a grand old Ger- 
man poem, which may well be compared with the 
Iliad of the Greeks. In it, Sigurd is called Sieg- 
fried ; and, while it retains very much of the origi- 
nal myth-story, it introduces many notions peculiar 
to the Middle Ages, and unknown to our Norse 

Our purpose here is to tell you a few stories 
founded on some of the earlier portions of this 
poem, and if, now and then, we allow our fancy 
and judgment to color the narrative, it is quite in 
keeping with the way in which writers and story- 




tellers of various nations and times have dealt with 
these Myths of the Northland. 

Story the First. 

It was in the old Norwegian days, in a strong- 
built castle by the sea, that were told the stories 
which I shall relate. The summer-time and the 
short-lived autumn had passed away. Warm 
breezes had ceased to blow. The Frost-giants, in 
their chill northern home, had rallied all their 
strength, and had forced the Sun to withdraw to- 
ward the south. Then the Winter came and stole 
the flowers, and stripped the trees, and sealed up 
the rivers, and built great ice-mountains, and 
wrapped the world in silence. And the North- 
winds, with flapping wings, swept furiously over 
land and sea, and covered the earth with snow, and 
filled the air with flying frost. 

But within the low-raftered halls of the Norse 
castle, the fire blazed bright and warm, and there 
were comfort and good cheer. Safely housed from 
the storms, the good jarl (or earl) Ronvald and his 
handsome wife Gudrun entertained their guests and 
their fair-haired children with games, and music and 
song, and with wondrous stories of the olden time. 

Well-built and tall was jarl Ronvald ; somewhat 
rude in manners, but kind at heart ; and his face, 
though roughened by wind and weather, was 
lighted always with a pleasant smile. A right 
jovial host was he. And among the ch'iefs who 
did homage to King Harold Harfager, Ronvald 
was accounted the most noble. The fair Gudrun 
was in every way worthy to be the wife of such a 
man, for she was loving and wise, and lacked no 
grace of mind or body. To her husband, she was 
a true helpmate ; to her children, a loving mother, 
and a kind teacher and friend. 

Three sons and a daughter brought sunshine 
and laughter into this household ; RoUo, the eldest, 
tall, slim, and straight as the mountain pine, having 
his mother's clear gray eyes, and his father's heavy 
brow ; Leif, the second son, of small stature, quiet 
and timid as a girl, with high forehead, betokening 
deep thoughts; then Ingeborg, the daughter, fairer 
than dream can paint, with golden locks, and eyes 
bluer than the clearest sky of summer ; lastly, 
Harold, a tottering baby-boy, the mother's darling, 
the father's pet, with all of life's promises and 
uncertainties still before him. 

Few guests came that year to jarl Ronvald's cas- 
tle; only two young men, — ^kinsmen to dame 
Gudrun, — and a strolling harper, old and gray. 
The winter days passed swiftly away, and brought 
many joys in their train. For, while such good 
cheer was found within the castle walls, no one 
recked that outside the cold winds whistled and 
shrieked, and the half-starved wolves howled and 

snarled even in sight of the gates, and at the doors 
of the poor. Thus, the season of the Yule-feasts 
came; the great hall was decked with cedar and 
spruce, and sprigs of the mistletoe ; and a plen- 
teous feast was ser\-ed ; and the Yule-log was rolled 
into the wide-mouthed chimney-place, where the 
cheerful fire blazed high, throwing warmth and a 
ruddy glow of light into every nook and comer of 
the room. When the feast was over, and the com- 
pany had tired of the festal games, the jarl and 
his family and guests sat around the hearth, and 
whiled the evening hours away with pleasant talk. 
And each of them sang a song, or told a story, or 
in some way added to the merriment of the hour. 

First, the old harper tuned his harp, and played 
most bewitching music. And as he played, he 
sang. He sang of the Asa-folk, who dwell in 
Gladsheim on the heaven-towering Asgard mount- 
ain ; of Odin, the All-Father, and of his ravens. 
Thought and Memory ; of the magic ring, Draup- 
ner, which gives richness to the earth ; and of the 
wondrous horse, the winged Sleipnir, upon whom 
the worthiest thoughts of men are carried heaven- 
ward. Then he sang of Thor, the mighty Asa, 
who rides in the whirlwind and the storm, and 
wages fiercest war with the giants of the mist and 
frost ; and of Frey, the gentle peace-maker, who 
scatters smiles and plenty over the land ; and of 
the shining Balder, beloved by gods and men ; and 
of the listening Heimdall,* who guards the shim- 
mering rainbow-bridge, and waits to herald, with 
his golden horn, the coming of the last twihght. 

When the harper had ended, all sat in silence 
for a time, watching the glowing embers and the 
flames that encircled the half-burnt Yule-log. For 
never had they heard more charming music, or 
listened to words more touching. Then Rollo, the 
ever restless, broke the silence. 

"Father," said he, "it is now four months 
since you came back from Rhineland and the 
south. You have told us about the strange people 
you saw there, and of the sunny skies and the pur- 
ple grapes. But I should like to know more; I 
should never tire of hearing about those lands. 
Tell us, please, some story that you heard while 
there. — some story that the Rhine people love." 

" Yes, Father," said Ingeborg, laying her slender 
hand in the broad, rough palm of the jarl ; "tell 
us a story of those people. Do they think and act 
as we do ? Do they know aught of Odin, and Thor, 
and Balder ? And do they love to think and speak 
of noble deeds, and brave men, and fair women?" 

" They think and act very much like our Norse 
people," answered the jarl ; "for they are kinsfolk 
of ours. Indeed, their forefathers were our fathers 
long ago, in a distant and now forgotten land. I 
will tell you a story which is often sung among 

* See Volume VI., page 277. 





thorn. I5iit it is not all a storj- of the Rhine people. 
Tales much like it you already know, which were 
told in Norivay hundreds of years ago." 

At Santen, in the Lowlands, there once lived a 
noble young prince named Siegfried. His father, 

Siegmund, was king of the rich country through 
which the lazy Rhine winds its way just before 
reaching the great North Sea ; and he was known, 
both far and near, for his good deeds and prudent 
thrift. And Siegfried's mother, the gentle Sigel- 
ind, was loved by all for her goodness of heart and 
her kindly charity to the poor. Neither king nor 




queen left aught undone that might make the 
young prince happy or fit him for hfe's usefulness. 
Wise men were brought from far-off lands to be 
his teachers, and every day something was added 
to his store of knowledge or his stock of happiness. 
Very skillful did he become in warlike games and 
in manly feats of strength. No other youth could 
throw tke spear with so much force, nor shoot the 
arrow with truer aim. No other youth could run 
more swiftly, nor ride with more becoming ease. 
His gentle mother took delight in adding to the 
beauty of his matchless form by clothing him with 
costly garments, decked with the rarest jewels. 
The old, the young, the rich, the poor, the high, 
the low, — all praised the fearless Siegfried, and all 
vied in friendly strife to win his favor. One would 
have thought that the life of the young prince 
could never be aught but a holiday, and that the 
birds would sing, and the flowers would bloom, 
and the sun would shine forever for his sake. 

But the business of man's life is not mere 
pastime, and none knew this truth better than the 
wise old king, Siegmund. 

"All work is noble," said he to Siegfried, "and 
he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. 
Even princes should know how to earn an honest 
livelihood by the labor of their hands." 

And so, when Siegfried had grown to be a tall 
and comely youth, he was apprenticed to a black- 
smith named Mimer, and sent to live at the smithy 
near the borders of the great Rhine forest. For, 
from the earliest times, the work of the blacksmith 
has been looked upon as the most noble of all 
trades — a trade which the gods themselves are 
not ashamed to follow. And this smith, Mimer, 
was the keeper of a wonderful well, or flowing 
spring, the waters of which imparted wisdom and 
far-seeing knowledge to all who drank of them. 
To Mimcr's school, then, where he would be 
taught to work skillfully and to think wisely, 
Siegfried was sent, to be, in all respects, like 
the other pupils there. A coarse blue blouse, 
heavy leggins, and a leathern apron took the 
place of the costly clothing which he had worn in 
his father's castle. His feet were incased in awk- 
ward wooden shoes, and his head was covered 
with a wolf-skin cap. The dainty bed, with its 
downy pillows, wherein every night his mother had 
been wont, with gentle care, to sec him safely 
covered, was given up for a rude heap of straw in 
a corner of the smithy. And the rich food to 
which he had been used gave place to the 
coarsest and humblest fare. But the lad did not 
complain, and for a time he was mirthful and 
happy. The sound of his hammer rang cheer- 
fully, and the sparks from his forge flew briskly, 
from morning till night. 

And a wonderful smith he became. No one 
could do more work than he, and none wrought 
with greater skill. The heaviest chains and the 
strongest bolts, for prison or for treasure-house, 
were but as toys in his stout hands, so easily and 
quickly did he beat them into shape. And he was 
alike skillful in work of the most delicate and brit- 
tle kind. 

One morning, his master, Mimer, came to the 
smithy with a sullen frown and a troubled look. 
It was clear that something had gone amiss, and 
what it was the apprentices soon learned from the 
smith himself Never, until lately, had any one 
questioned Mimer's right to be called the foremost 
smith in all the world ; but a rival had come for- 
ward. An unknown upstart, one Amilias, in Bur- 
gundy-land, had made a suit of armor which, he 
boasted, no stroke of s\\ord could dint, and no 
blow of spear could scratch; and he had sent a 
challenge to all the other smiths in Rhineland to 
equal that piece of workmanship, or else acknowl- 
edge themselves his underlings and vassals. For 
days had Mimer himself toiled, alone and vainly, 
trying to forge a sword whose edge the boasted 
armor of Amilias would not foil ; and now, in de- 
spair, he came to ask the help of his apprentices. 

" Who among you will undertake the forging of 
such a sword ?" he asked. 

One after another, the twelve apprentices shook 
their heads. And the foreman, whose name was 
Veliant, said: "1 have heard much about that 
wonderful armor, and I doubt if any skill can make 
a sword with edge that can injure it. The best we 
can do is to make a coat of mail whose temper 
shall match that of Amili;!s's armor." 

Then the lad Siegfried quickly said: "1 will 
make such a sword as you want, — a blade that no 
coat of mail can foil. Give me but leave to try ! " 

The apprentices laughed in scorn, but Mimer 
checked them : " You hear how this stripling can 
talk ; let us see what he can do. He is the king's 
son, and we know that he has uncommon talent. 
He shall make the sword ; but if, upon trial, it 
fail, I will make him rue the day." 

Then Siegfried went to his task. And for seven 
days and seven nights the sparks never stopped fly- 
ing from his flaming forge ; and the ringing of his 
anvil, and the hissing of the hot metal, as he tem- 
pered it, were heard continuously. On the eighth 
day the sword was fashioned, and Siegfried brought 
it to Mimer. 

The smith felt the razor edge of the bright 
weapon, and said: "This seems, indeed, a fair 
fire-edge. Let us make a trial of its keenness." 

Then a thread of wool as light as thistle-down 
was thrown upon water, and, as it floated there, 
Mimer struck it with the sword. The glittering 




blade cleft the slender thread in twain, and the 
pieces floated undisturbed upon the surface. 

" Well done ! " cried the delighted smith. 
•' Never have 1 seen a keener edge or truer tem- 
per. With this, methinks, 1 can well cope with 
Amilias for the championship of the world." 

But Siegfried was not so easily satisfied, and he 
said to Mimer: "1 pray you give me leave to 
temper the weapon yet a little more." 

And he took the sword and broke it into many 
pieces ; and then for three days he welded it in a 
red-hot fire, and tempered it with milk and oat- 
meal. Then, in sight of Mimer and the scoffing 
apprentices, he cast a light ball of wool upon the 
water, and, as it floated, he struck it with the 
bright blue blade. And it was parted at a stroke, 
as had been the single thread before, and not the 
smallest fiber was moved out of its place. 

Then back to the smithy Siegfried went again, 
and his forge glowed with a brighter fire, and his 
hammer rang with a cheerier sound. But he 
suffered none to come near, and no one ever knew 
what witchery he used. For seven weeks he 
wrought, and then, pale and haggard, he came 
and put the sword into Mimer's hands. "It is 
finished," he said. "The sword Balmung is 
yours. Try its edge and prove its temper in any 
way you list." 

Forthwith, a great pack of wool, the fleeces of 
ten sheep, was brought and laid upon the water. 
And the sword Balmung divided it as smoothly 
and as easily as it had cleft the woolen ball or the 
slender woolen thread. 

" Now, indeed," cried the delighted Mimer, 
"I no longer fear to make trial with that upstart 
Amilias. If his coat of mail shall withstand the 
stroke of such a sword as Balmung, then will I 
cheerfully be his underling. But, if this good 
blade deceive me not, it will serve me well, and 1, 
Mimer, shall still be called the wisest and greatest 
of all the smiths in the world." 

And he at once sent a challenge to Amilias in 
Burgundy ; and a time and place were set for the 
two mighty smiths to meet and settle, by trial, the 
question of the championship. 

When the time which had been appointed drew 
near, Mimer, with the sword Balmung by liis side, 
and followed by all his apprentices, set out on his 
way to the place of meeting. T'hrough the forest 
they went, by the nearest road, to the sluggish 
Rhine, and then they followed the river's winding 
course for many a league, until they came to the 
height of land which marked the boundary be- 
tween Burgundy and the Lowlands. It was here, 
midway between the shops of the rival smiths, that 
the trial was to be made. And here were already 
gathered great numbers of people from the Low- 

lands and from Burgundy, anxiously waiting lor 
the coming ol their champions. On the one side 
were the wise Siegmund and his gentle queen, and 
their train ot attendant knights and courtiers and 
fair ladies. On the other side were the three Bur- 
gundian kings, Gunther, Gemot, and the child 
Giselher, and a mighty retinue of warriors led by 
grim old Hagen, the uncle of the kings, and the 
wariest chief in all Khineland. 

When everything was in readiness for the con- 
test, Amihas, clad in his boasted armor, went up 
to the top of the hill, and sat upon a great rock, 
and waited for the appearance of Mimer. As he 
sat there, he looked, to the people below, like 
some great castle-tower ; for he was a giant of 
huge dimensions, and his glittering coat of mail 
was not only skillfully wrought, but so great in size 
that fifty men of common mold might find shelter 
or be hidden within it. As the smith Mimer, 
himself a man of no mean st.ature, toiled up the 
steep hill-side, a grim and ghastly smile overspread 
the giant's face ; for he felt no fear of the slender, 
glittering blade which was to try the metal of his 
armor. And, already, a shout of triumph was 
sent up by the Burgundian hosts, so sure were 
they of their champion's success. 

But Mimer's friends waited in breathless silence. 
Only King Siegmund whispered to his queen, and 
said: "Knowledge is stronger than brute force. 
The smallest dwarf who lias drunk from Mimer's 
well, and carries the sword of the knowing one, 
may safely engage in contest with the stoutest giant. " 

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, 
Amilias folded his huge arms and smiled again — 
this time in scorn. But the smith knew no fear. 

"Are you ready?" asked the smith. 

" Ready ! " answered the giant. " Strike ! " 

Mimer drew back the glittering sword, and the 
muscles on his brawny arms stood out like great 
ropes. Then Balmung, swift as lightning, cleft 
the air from right to left. The waiting lookers-on, 
in the valley below, thought to hear the noise of 
clashing steel ; but they listened in vain, for no 
sound came to their ears, save a sharp hiss, like 
that which red-hot iron gives when plunged into a 
tank of cold water. The giant sat, unmoved, with 
his arms still folded upon his breast ; but the smile 
had vanished from his face. 

"How do you feel now?" asked Mimer, in a 
half-mocking tone. 

"Rather strangely, as if cold iron had touched 
me," faintly answered the giant. 

" Shake thyself!" cried Mimer. 

The giant did so, and lo! he fell in two halves, 
for the sword had cleft sheer through the vaunted 
coat of mail, and cut in twain the huge body in- 
cased within. Down tumbled the giant's head 




and shoulders, and his still folded arms; and they 
rolled with thundering noise to the foot of the hill, 
and fell with a fearful splash into the deep Rhine 
waters. And there, fathoms down, they may now 
be seen, when the water is clear, lying like great 
gray rocks at the bottom of the river. The rest of 
the huge body, with its incasing armor, still sat 
upright in its place. And to this day, travelers 
sailing down the Rhine are shown, on moonlight 
evenings, the giant's armor on the high hill-top. 
In the dim, uncertain light, one easily fancies it to 
be the ivy-covered ruins of some old castle of 
former times. 

The smith Mimer sheathed his sword, and 
walked slowly down the hill-side to the plain, 
where his friends welcomed him with glad cheers 
and shouts of jov. But the Burgundians, baffled 
and feeling vexed, turned silently homeward, nor 
cast a look back to the scene of their disappoint- 
ment and their ill-fated champion's defeat. 

And Siegfried returned, with Mimer and his 
fellows, to the smoky smithy, to his roaring bel- 
lows and ringing anvil, and to his coarse fare and 
rude, hard bed, and to a life of labor. And while 
all the world praised Mimer and his skill, and the 
fiery edge of the sunbeam blade, none knew that 
it was the boy Siegfried who had wrought the 
wonderful piece of workmanship. 

But, after a while, it was whispered around that 
not Mimer, but one of his apprentices, had forged 
the sword. And when the smith was asked what 
truth there was in this story, he shook his head 
and made no answer. The apprentices, too, were 
silent, save Veliant, the foreman, who said: "It 
was I who forged the fire-edge of the blade Bal- 
mung ; but to my master, Mimer, belongs all the 
praise, for my work was done in accordance with 
his orders." And none denied the truth of what 
he said ; even Siegfried himself was speechless. 
Hence it is that, in songs and stories, it is said by 
some that Mimer, and by others that Veliant, 
made the doughty sword Balmung. 

But blind hate and jealousy were uppermost in 
the coarse and selfish mind of the foreman, and 
he sought how he might injure the prince, and, 
mayhap, drive him away from the smithy in 
disgrace. "This boy has done what none of us 
could do," said he. " He may yet do greater 

deeds, and set himself up as the champion smith 
of the world. In that case, we shall all have to 
humble ourselves before him." 

And he nursed this thought, and brooded over 
the hatred which he felt toward the blameless 
prince. Yet he did not dare to harm him, for fear 
of their master, Mimer. And, although Siegfried 
suffered much from the cruel taunts oi the foreman 
and the unkind words of his fellow apprentices, yet 
the sparks flew from his forge as merrily and as 
bright as ever, and his busy bellows roared from 
early morning until late at night. And Mimer's 
heart grew warm toward the prince, and he 
praised his diligence and skill, and by pleasant 
talk urged him to greater efforts. 

" Hold on in your course, my brave lad," said 
he, "and your workmanship will, one day, rival 
the handicraft of the dwarfs themselves." 

Here the jarl paused, and all his hearers waited 
silently for several minutes, expecting him to go 
on with his story. But he only smiled, and stroked 
gently the silken tresses of little Ingeborg, and 
gazed thoughtfully into the glowing fire. Then 
RoUo, when he saw that his father had ended, said, 
impatiently : " Is that all ? " 

" That is all of Siegfried's smithing. For, the 
next day, the envious Veliant sent him on an 
errand into the forest, and he never came back to 
the smithy again." 

"Why?" asked Ingeborg. "Was he lost, or 
did he go back to his parents at Santen ? " 

" Neither," answered the jarl. " The world lay 
before him, and much noble work was waiting 
to be done. With brave heart and willing hands, 
he went out to help the innocent and weak, and 
to punish wrong-doers wherever he might find 

" What did he do ? " asked RoUo. 

"About the first thing that he did was to slay 
the dragon of the Glittering Heath." 

•'Tell us about it!" cried all the young people 
in a breath. 

" Not now," said the jarl, smiling. " It is not a 
very pleasant stor)- to tell before the Yule-fire. 
But our good harper will sing for you again ; and 
then, mayhap, he will tell you something about 
the dragon that Siegfried slew." 

(To be continued.) 






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1 66 




Every reading boy or girl knows something about 
the poisonous serpent of India, called the Cobra 
de Capcllo. This name, which means "hooded 
snake," was given it on account of its habit of dilat- 
ing or stretching its neck into a sort of hood, partly 
covering the head. The snake is from three to 

four feet long, of a brownish-yellow color, and its 
poison is exceedingly dangerous, and generally fatal. 

But there is also in India a little animal called 
the mongoose, which is said to fight and overcome 
the cobra, and even to receive its bite without 
injury. The mongoose, which resembles the 
weasel in size and general habits, is covered w'ith 
gray and dark-freckled hairs, — a sharp-nosed, won- 
derfully agile little creature, as you will see from 
the picture. Some naturalists believe that the 
mongoose knows of a plant or root which, when 
eaten, counteracts the snake-poison ; but others 
deny this, and maintain that the venom has no 
effect on the animal, which therefore destroys the 
cobra without danger, just as hogs kill rattlesnakes 
in our own country. It is a singular fact that 
poisons do produce different effects upon different 
animals, and the following account seems to show 
that the mongoose is really a natural enemy of the 
cobra, and is thoroughly proof against the serpent- 
poison. The fight described was witnessed by sev- 
eral officers of the British army in India, who signed 
a report of it, which reads, mainly, as follow-s : 

" The mongoose approached the cobra with cau- 
tion, but without fear. The cobra, with head erect 

and body vibrating, watched its opponent anxiously, 
knowing well how deadly an enemy he had to 
contend with. The mongoose was soon within 
easy striking distance of the snake, which, sud- 
denly throwing back his head, struck at the mon- 
goose with tremendous force. But the little 
creature, quick as thought, sprung back out of 
reach, uttering savage growls. Again the hooded 
reptile rose, and the mongoose, nothing daunted 
by the distended jaws and glaring eyes of its an- 
tagonist, approached so near to the snake as to 
force it to draw its head back considerably ; this 
lessened its distance from the ground. The mon- 
goose, at once seizing the opportunity, sprung at 
the cobra's head, and appeared to inflict as well as 
to receive a wound. Again the combatants renewed 
the encounter; again the snake struck at its wily 
opponent, and again the latter's agility saved him. 

" The fight went on in this way three-quarters of 
an hour, and both creatures seemed now to nerve 
themselves for the final encounter. The cobra, 
changing its position of defense for that of attack, 
advanced, and seemed determined now ' to do or die. ' 
The cobra soon approached so close that the mon- 
goose (which, owing to want of space behind, was 
unable to spring out of reach by jumping backward, 
as it had done in the previous encounters) nimbly 
bounded straight up in the air. The cobra missed 
its object, and struck the ground under him. Im- 
mediately on the mongoose alighting, the cobra 
struck again, and, to all appearance, fixed its fangs 
in the head of the mongoose. The mongoose, as the 
cobra was withdrawing its head after it had inflicted 
the bite, instantly retaliated by fixing its teeth in the 
head of the snake, which quickly unfolded its coils 
and ignominiously slunk away. Instantly the mon- 
goose was on its retreating foe, and burying its 
teeth in the cobra's head, at once ended the contest. 

" The mongoose now set to work to devour its 
victim, and in a few minutes had eaten the head 
and two or three inches of the body, including the 
venom so dreaded by all. We should have men- 
tioned before that, previous to this encounter, the 
cobra had struck a fowl, which died within half an 
hour after receiving the bite, showing, beyond doubt, 
the snake's power of inflicting a deadly wound. 

"After the mongoose had satisfied its appetite, 
we proceeded to examine with a pocket lens the 
wounds he had received from the cobra ; and on 
cleansing one of these places, the lens disclosed the 
broken fang of the cobra deeply imbedded in the 
head of the mongoose. . . . We ha\'e had the 
mongoose confined ever since (now four days' time), 
and it is as healthy and lively as ever." 




1 68 



" Lost ! lost ! " you hear him say — 

" Stolen or strayed away ! 

Strayed away from Buttercup town, 
The fair little Princess Thistledown ! " 

All the court had gone to dine, 
Knights and lords and ladies fine. 
Through the open gate-way straying, 
Came a troop of minstrels playing: 

One was a fiddler, shriveled and black ; 
One had a banjo over his back ; 
One was a piper, and one did naught 
But dance to the tune, as a dancer ought. 

First, the fiddler drew his bow. 
Struck a chord, so sweet and low. 
Lords and ladies held their breath 
In a silence deep as death. 

Ting-a-ting, the banjo rang. 
Up the lords and ladies sprang; 

y.-^-^^aijM^,..*y;*y^t^g> ^ ^. 1 

Round about the piper pressed — 
' Ho, good piper, pipe your best ! " 

And they danced to the sound 

In a merry-go-round. 

For never before had a minstrel band 

Chanced to stray into Fairyland. 

They filled their pockets with silver money, 
They fed them on barley-cakes and honey ; 
But when they were fairly out of the town, 
They missed little Princess Thistledown. 

Call the crier ! ring the bells ! 
Search through all the forest dells; 
Here is silver, here is gold, 
Here are precious gems untold ; 




He who finds the child may take 
Half the kingdom for her sake ! " 

Bim ! boom ! comes a blustering fellow, 
Dressed in black velvet, slashed with yellow. 
He 's the king's trumpeter, out on the track 
Of the wandering minstrels, to bring them back. 

But the fiddler is telling his beads by the fire, 
In a cap and a gown, like a grizzly old friar. 
The man with the banjo is deaf as a post, 
The jolly old piper as thin as a ghost, 
And the dancer is changed, by some magical 

To a one-legged beggar that limps on his crutch. 

Then Mistress Gentian bent to look 
At her own sweet image in the brook, 
And whispered, " Nobody knows it, dear, 
But I have the darling safely here." 

And, dropping her fringes low, she said : 
" I was tucking my babies into bed. 
When the poor little Princess chanced to pass, 
Sobbing among the tangled grass; 
Her silver mantle was rumpled and torn. 
Her golden slippers were dusty and worn ; 
The bats had frightened her half to death, 
The spiders ch;ised her quite out of breath. 
I fed her with honey, I washed her with dew, 
1 rocked her to sleep in my cradle of blue ; 
And I could tell, if I chose to say. 
Who it was coaxed her to run away." 

The mischievous Wind the cradle swung. 
" Sleep, little lady, sleep!" he sung; 
'■ What would they say if they only knew 

It was I who ran away with you?" 

Vol. IX.— 12. 





By E. S. Brooks. 

(Continued /r()tfi the November Number.) 

After a moment of deep thought, the Master continues : 

Where all speak well, 't is hard to tell 

Just which advice to take. 
Come, Fancy Bright ! Come, High Desire ! 

What choice now shall we make ? 
Come, Fact ! come, Fable ! Counsel now ! 

From all these stories gleaming, 
Can you not say which way — whicli way 

Your special choice is leaning? 
What ? Not a word ? Why, that 's absurd ! 

I 'm ready to receive it 


Now, by the Pen, I have it, then — 

We '11 to the children leave it ! 
All, eagerly : 

Yes — to tlie children leave it. 
Master ; 

What ho ! my Puck, my sprightly Puck, 

Come hither to thy master. 
Now hasten, hasten, merry Puck, 

Come — faster, faster, faster ! 

Puck, as a messenger-boy, running in breathless : 

Hail, Master of the Magic Pen ! 

What would you now witlj Puck again ? 

hill and vale, The Sun 
rud-dy health Than gold . 
eyes so bright Can read . . 

lamp still is bum-ing ; 
is . . . rich • er treasure ; 
where sag-es pon-der ; 

Seek ye, then, seek ye, then, Seek ye, then, the 
Seek ye, then, seek ye, then, Seek ye, then, the 
Seek ye, then, seek ye, then, Seek ye, then, the 

Master : 


Haste ihee, Puck, to earth now go, 
To some happy home below. 

With children in it. 
Bring me three — all joy and mirth, — 

I '11 put a girdle round the earth. 
In half a minute. 

Exit, running. 
Frolics, chorus ; sing only the first two stanzas : 


Mag- ic 
Mag - ic 

Quick come, for, quick re-tum-ing, 
Here,, .wait-ing for your pleasure, 
'T is... here ! no fa r- the r wander, 

guick come, for, quick re-turn-ing, Children, come, 
ere,..wait-!ng for thy pleasure, Children, etc. 
'Tis...herel no far-t her wander, Children, etc. 

1. Come, children, come, by 

2. Come, children, come, your 

3. Come, children, come, your 

children, come, children, children, come 




A/ter yi Verse. 

Puck, reentering in haste : 

I came back by the moon. 

Not a moment too soon ; 

The children are coming 

By special balloon. 

Chorus of Frolics, third stanza: 

During this chorus the Children enter, on the Elephant-car, with a 
toy balloon tied to the waist of etch. Driver salams. The 
Children stand am.ized, and jump down from car. Driver 
leads off elephant. 

Children, to Master : 

We are Dolly, Dot, and Dick! 

What you want us for ? 
Please to tell us pretty quick, 

What you want us for ! 

They look around in wonder. 

Oh 1 what lots of pretty things ! 
Little ^rls with birdies' wings. 
Lots of folks — and boys — and kings ! — 
What you want us for ? 

Children dear. 
Welcome here, 
To our council-hall ! 

Whence — you know — 
Stories flow 
For the children all. 

Tell me, then — 

For the Pen 
Some new tale would write — 

What shall be 

Told by me 
Through the Pen to-night ? 

Stories nice. 
In a trice. 
Here may be expressed. 
Can you find. 
In your mind. 
Which you like the best ? 
Children : 

We like 'em big — we like 'em small, 
But most we like — the best of all — 
The kind our m.inima tells. 

Children : 

Master : 

And what arc they? 

Why, what we say ! 
The kind our mamma tells. 

But what does she tell, children dear ? 
Children, checking them off on their fingers : 

Why — fairy, Bible, true, and queer; 

Fact, quickly : 

Fable : 
Master : 

s what our mamma tells. 

Then they 're fact ! 
Well, and fable! 

Yes, they 're both ! 
I 'm unable 

To decide what the Pen shall write yet; 
For the children, I find, 
To no merits are blind — 

.\s they like any kind they can get. 

Reenter Puck, who says : 

O Master, a herald from Gnome Man's Land 

Craves leave to present you his sovereigns' command. 


Let the herald appear. 
Puck, ushering in the herald: 

Master mine — he is here. 
Herald : 

There are forty kings in the (Jnome Man's Land — 
Forty kings wilh their crowns of gold; 

-\nd not a king of the kingly b.iiid 
Is over twelve years old. 

There are forty queens in the Gnome Man's Land — - 

Forty queens m their jewels fine ; 
-^lul not a queen of the queenly band 

Has passed the age of nine. 

.\nd the forty kings, and the forty queens. 
In Gnome Man's Land hear a'l day long 

The stories told by the tinome Man old. 
As he sits in that royal throng. 

.\nd the forty kings, and the forty queens. 
Know your trouble, O Master great, 

And they bid me .say that the Gnome Man gray 
Can set the matter straight. 

So the forty kings, and the forty queens. 
Send him here to your council-hall ; 

Bid the Gnome Man tell what he knows so well, — 
The needs of the children small. 

General Chorus of Welcome; 

Tempo Marziale. 

Welcome to the hap-py day; Hail ! hail ! hail ! To ihe 







:-^-g ^^g j=rt — j:^ 

r 1 * -I- 

gnome man gray. 

Hail ! hail ! hail ! 



-f — 





Welcome to the happy day; Hail ! hail ! hail ! To the 

■^^0- tti -!» - ^- ■^- , 

l^ ^^s^ 

l^nome man gfray. From the kings and the queens over 

field and glen^ He is com - ing to coun-sel the 

Master, rising joyfully : 

Gay are the joys of Christmas; 
Thanksgiving's feasts are gay ; 
But the ringing chime of the Gnome Man's rhyme 
Marl<s the children's fairest day. 

Curtain parts at rear and discloses the Gnome Man on elevated 
dais- All form in open half-circle before him. Gnome Man: 

In storm and shine, 

In cloud and sun, 
O Master mine, 

Life's course is run. 

And shine and cloud, 

And sun and storm, 
Are all allowed 

Life's course to form. 

All colors blend 

For rainbow hues. 
All forces send 

The morning dews. 

So, Master great. 

The childish mind. 
In (?// you state. 

May pleasure find. 

Not Fact alone 

Can counsel give, 
Dry as a bone ; 

May Fable live. 

Fable and Fact 

Should mingled be ; 
Both counteract. 

Yet both agree. 

Let both be dressed 

In colors gay ; 
Tints mix the best 

That varying lay. 

All things have worth, 

All joys are bright ; 
Give children mirth — 

Good-night — good-night '. 

Master, to Gnome Man : 

Thanks, Gnome Man gray, 
Thy counsel sage 
Shall be my gauge. 
For tale or lay. 

Gnome Man disappears. 
Master continues, to all the others : 

" Black spirits and white. 
Red spirits and gray. 
Mingle, mingle, mingle. 
You that mingle may." 

Mingling Chorus. Frolics, Stories, and all the characters join in 
this chorus, marching and countermarching in effective figures, 
the design being to represent the mixing of fact and fable m the 
children's stories. 



I L_l I Lj I I ! 




Jin-gle, jin-gle, jin-gle. jin-gle. Thus we fix,... 

May we thus be a - ble good to see. 

^— «f » t5-Un^=i=£3=^ 

Mingle, mingle, mingle, mingle, Mix ! mix ! mix ! 




n * * - 

f ts r — tJ^^^r 

- -)«-» !■ i w : 


Mingle, mingle, mingle, mingle, Only then, 


Brightest joys may jin - gle, 'Round the Pen, 'Round the 

All the blending glo - ries, gold and gray 

Pen, Mingle, mingle, on - ly then. Mingle, mingle, 

Of the children's sto-ries grave and gay. 

-J- ■! y J w ic 


on - ly then. Brightest joy may jingle, 'Round the 

'i;z*- i»= 





I — I — ^ — I — 




s-K — = y 1 

^ Mingling fact and fa - 

J- 1 ^'""-J- 

— 1 — ' ^^^ ' 

ble fast and free, 

J 3. J. -J- W- •' 

— M 1 — 4 * & 1 



^— £ — U — tf — g= 



^ — 1»- 
Pen, 'Round about the Pen, 'Round about the 




Pen ; Brightest joys may jingle, jingle, 'Round about the 

Then ho ! fill the little folks' magazines. 
Load the presses with stories again. 

And salute the world with our flag unfurled — 
The flag of the Jlagic Pen ! 

Grand salute; all characters marching abreast, or in two files, to 
front of stage — standard in center. Colors are dipped to audi- 
ence: then countermarch to throne. Salute the Master. 
Elephant-car enters, and all the characters (excepting the chil- 
dren) march off in procession, singing the Chorus. 

Pen ; Brightest joys may jingle, jingle, 'Round about the 





^ Mag - ic Pen we 

go, Bear-ing joy 

u r-?~Fr 

-*— « — « — ' 

to high and 
T 1 i-t" 

1*^^' ^ '■^- 


t^ — 

^ Von 'P/MtnH oKrttif tlid P*in 'Rmindc 

Pen, 'Round about the Pen, 'Round about the Pen 

ei_ — I— 1— .'— j^-i — =-.^-,-^--» 

low, Bear-ing stories. Bright with glories, Bright with 

-Pix^ , I 1- 

Master, rising : 

The spirit moves ! 

From gaze of men 

Bear off the Pen ; 
The spirit moves ! 

Page of Pen presents cushion, kneeUng at throne. The Master 
deposits the Pen on the cushion, and the Page bears it off. 

Master ; 

I 'm the lord of the wonderful Magic Pen, 

I 'm the master of every tongue, 
And my stories old for the children I 've told, 

Since the days when the earth was young. 

So, while Fact and Fable both agree 

To color my stories all. 
And my Magic Pen writes the thoughts of men 

For the children large and small, 

I will rule with iny scepter the teeming brain, 
No monarch more mighty than I ; 

And the warm hearts glow as the ages go, 
With the thoughts that can never die. 

pleasure's inventories. Bright with pleasure's in-ven- 

to - ries ; Fall and flow Fall and flow. With the 





Why, why, why ! 

Then, suddenly remembering, they suirt after the retreating proces- 
sion, saying : 

-J- H- All : 

Oh ! here ! say ! yoti forgot us ! 
Reenter Puck. 

I TTTj— J I I "i I m . M , Z n- ^"'^'^ ■ 

I ^* m V i m — ' I I ~^ r~[~ f^ " Come with me ; 

\ F LJ * .J. -*— s«- |» '^m -tz^ 1 I 11 agree 

■■^^ Safe at home 

Meantime, the children stand amazed until the procession passes off You soon shall be. 

Then walking slowly to front of stage, they look at each other Children to Puck : 
and say : ' , ' 

DoLLy : AH right ! 

Mv mv my! To audience: 

Do^r: Good-night: 

Did you ever ! To one another : 

Dick : Now we '11 wait for the stories bright. 

No, I never ! All lock arms and run off with Puck. 





Which of these little girls lives in your house? 

l-OR VKKV I irri.E FOLK. 


Wllicii of these little boys lives in your house ? 


J A C K - I X - T H E - P U L P I T . 



Again the beautiful wonder-day, called Christ- 
inas, is drawing near, sending long gleams of light 
before it like a star. 

May it bring you abundant joy, my youngsters ; 
so much joy that your little hearts will overflow, 
and fill the land with brightness. 

Now for a word or two about my friends, 


What keen eyes they have ! And it is a happy 
thing for those brave little things who stay North 
through the winter that they have far sight as well 
as sharp sight, or else they might miss many a 
meal that they could ill spare in that hungry sea- 
son. Just try them, m\' hearers. Throw a fresh 
bone or a piece of meat on the snow, and watch 
the crows come. It is a cheering thing to scatter 
bread-crumbs or a little corn on some bare place 
in snow-time, and to see the eagerness of the 
poorly fed wild birds as they enjoy the unexpected 

"One midwinter," wTites a real bird-lover, "I 
•cleared away the snow under an apple-tree near 
the house, and scattered some corn there. I had 
not seen a blue-jay for weeks, yet that very day 
they found my corn, and after that the jays came 
daily and partook of it, holding the kernels under 
their feet upon the limbs of trees and pecking them 

Your Jack thinks, too, that it may prove to be a 
pleasant thing to invite the birds in this way to a 
share in the Christmas festivities, especially if all 
the other dear "chicks" — the poor and ill-pro- 
vided human ones — have also been well remem- 
bered, for then the Christmas carolings will be 
complete. Not one will be overlooked if, as the 
Little School-ma'am says, "Loving eyes have the 
sharpest sight of all." 


Dear Jack : You are interested, I know, in every new and 
strange invention, and like to have something odd to chat about 
with your hearers. So I 'U just tell you of a wonderful instrument 
that Slonsieur Armengaud, a scientific Frenchman, positively prom- 
ises to bring out. 

It is called the "telestroscope," and, if successful, it will enable a 
man in his own office at, say. New York, not only to hear the voice 
of his friend in Nankin, China, but also to see an image of his 
friend exactly as he may happen to be at the moment of communi- 
cation ! Yours very truly, J. A. K. 


Not so very long ago, we talked about the 
Campanero, or Bell-bird, of South America, and 
now here is news concerning a useful little cousin 
of his in Australia. He is not much' larger than a 
snow-bunting, but he has a pleasant note, not 
unlike the sound of a distant sheep-bell. About 
sunset the bell-birds begin their tinkling, and for 
a while the whole forest echoes with the silvery 
tones, — a sort of Angclus, or Vesper-bell of Na- 
ture in the wild bush, hushing the woods for 
evening prayer. 

Besides their musical sweetness, these notes are 
a sure sign that water is near, and the weary trav- 
eler in that thirsty land is glad enough to hear the 
bell-bird calling to rest and refreshment after a 
hot day's tramp. 


Dear Jack : You told us once that hunters of seals sometimes 
manage to draw close to their game by whistling tunes to engage 
their attention. -And now I have just read about a sportsman who, 
one day, in the woods, sal very still, and began to whistle an air to 
a red squirrel on a near tree. 

" In a twinkling," says he, " the little fellow sat up, leaned his 
head to one side, and listened. A moment after, he had scrambled 
down the trunk, and when within a few yards he sat up and 
listened again. Pretty soon he jumped upon the pile of rails on 
which I was, came within four feet of me, sat up, made an umbrella 
of his bushy tail, and looked straight at me, his little eyes beaming 
with pleasure. Then I changed the tune, and chut ! away he 
skipped. But before long he came back to his seat on the rails, 
and, as I watched him, it actually seemed as if he were trying to 
pucker up his mouth to whistle. 1 changed the tune again, but this 
time he looked so funny as he scampered off that I burst out laugh- 
ing, and he came back no more." 

Now, Jack dear, that man had much more enjoyment out of his 
music-loving squirrel than if he had shot him : and perhaps after 
this you will hear the boys of your neighborhood piling up rails to 
sit on, and whistling to the squirrels who come to talk with you. 
And if they don't whisde well enough, send for me, for I can 
whistle nicely, if I am a girl. — Yours and the squirrels' friend. 

Amy T D, twelve years. 


I don't mean the frozen lace-work on branch 
and spray, nor the pretty heaps and furrows sculpt- 
ured in the snow by the wind, nor the star-marks 
of the partridge on his hungry rounds, nor the 
dents of the hare's soft pads among the trees, nor 
the scratchy tracks of the busy squirrel. But I 
mean the stitching left by the Deer-mouse on his 
swift journeys over Mother Earth's snowy cover- 
lid. The lines cross one another like a little girl's 
first attempts at quilting by hand. He does n't 
really need to risk showing his little brown body on 
the white surface, for below the snow his dwelling 
is joined to the homes of his friends by a maze of 
little tunnels and -.vinding arch-ways, and along 
these he can stroll quietly and safely to pay neigh- 
borly visits and exchange the compliments of the 
season. And, if 1 'm not mistaken, you will find a 

JACK-IX-THP:-rL- 1,1'IT. 


portrait of him and his mate in St. Nicholas for 
June, 1877. I may as well tell you, too, that he 
is commonly called the "white-footed Western 


Dear Jack : I suppose your more learned youngsters know all 
about why winter days are short and summer days are long. I wish 
I did: but I really can not understand the reasons given in the 
astronomy books, 1 get so nniddlcd up w'S the " inclination of the 
earth's axis," " the eccentricity of the earth's orbit/' and " the pre- 
cession of the equinoxes" — but I am not quite sure this last thing has 
anything to do with it. Anyhow, I wish to tell you a different reason, 
which I heard in a song. It is something like this: In summer the 
weather is warm, and to walk fast would make everybody uncomfort- 
able; so people just stroll along, and the globe is pushed around but 
slowly, like the barrels that acrobats walk on. But in winter the 
weather is so chilly that cver>*body is glad to walk briskly, and even 
to run, in order to keep warm ; and the consequence is that the globe 
gets kicked around quickly, and night comes sooner than in summer. 
This is convenient, because it tires one so to walk fast all day. 

After making this explanation, the song says : " Oh, it 's wonder- 
ful how they do it, — but they do ! " and that is just what I say about 
the causes given in the astronomy book. Perhaps, when I am older, 
I shall grasp the proper idea ; I am sure I hope I shall. — Yours 
truly, WiiJ-iE Hanson, ten years. 

P. S. — I told my papa what to say and he wrote it, because my 
handwriting is too joggly. W. H. 

Yes, Master Willie, and it strikes your Jack that 
the earth's motion would be joggly, too, if it moved 
according to the theory of that merry song. Ever 
since I 've been a Jack-in-the-Pulpit I *ve noticed that 
folks don't rf//move in the same direction. 


Now and then a fine carriage rolls along the 
corduroy road by my meadow, drawn by spirited 
horses that evidently do not relish exploring ex- 
peditions. They would much prefer the fine turn- 
pike, and for my part I am quite 
willing that they should keep to it. 
No literary Jack-in-thc-Pulpit with 
sensitive nerves craves the company 
of clattering horses and rumbling 
carriages; but just think what my 

noble ancestors on the Prussian side of the family 
must have endured in the days when the first 
King Frederick came into power. Why, I 've just 
had an interesting letter from a little school-ma'am 
that has made me almost deaf with its racket. 
Onlv listen : 

" It was on the occasion, dear Jack, of the coronation of Frederick, 
the first king of Prussia, the grandfather of the famous Frederick the 
Great. The cavalcade moved from Berlin to Konigsberg, five hun- 
dred miles, through a wild, uncultivated country. It required eighteen 
hundred carriages and thirty thousand post-horses to convey the 
court to the scene of coronation. The carriages moved like an army, 
in three divisions of six hundred each. 

'* 'I he streets of the coronation city were tapestried with the richest 
and most gorgeous colored cloth, and many of them were carpeted. 
The king's diamond coat-buttons each cost a sum equal to seven and 
a half thousand dollars. 

*' Frederick's own hands placed the crown upon his brow. U was 
in 1700 that thus began the now powerful kingdom of Prussia." 


I 'm told my good friend Deacon Green is com- 
ing out with a grand offer of a hundred brand-new 
dollar-bills, as prizes for my boys and girls. Stand 
by the deacon, my chicks, and get his money if 
you can ! 


Bear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Do you ever lie — no, I mean stand 
awake nights? If you do, listen sharply, as Christmas draws near; 
for Percy, Charley, .ind I are going to surprise you with a serenade ! 
We are practicing for it already. Uncle Ben says we need not 
stand out-of-doors to serenade, as the big screnaders do, for if we 
sing and play in the house with all our might, you will like it just as 
well, if not belter. That seems queer to me, but I suppose it must 
be so. I 'II send you in this letter the picture Uncle drew of us three 
practicing. He made it out of ink, and he put Pompey and Kitty 
mto the picture, because they are so much interested. We have 
hard work teaching Pompey not to bark as 
soon as Percy begins to scrape. Though we 
live about a quarter of a mile from the dear 
Litde School-ma'am's red school-house, we do 
not go to school there. We have a nice gov- 

Percy and Charley send their love to you, 
and so do I. — From your faithful little friend, 
LiLV KrssAM. 






Sometimes, in the best-ordered printing-offices, it so happens that 
a for7n (which is one or more pages of reading-matter, set up in 
type, and fastened in an iron frame ready for the printing-press) 
meets with an accident. The man who is carrying it trips and drops 
it, or he bangs it down in such a way that it is loosened, and out 
tumble the type, heher-skeher. It is then "in pi," as the printers 
call it, and some one must pick up the scattered type, and, examin- 
ing each little bit of metal, restore it to its proper position. The 
printer who sits in the comer busied with this pi is not in the least 
like Jack Homer, but is generally for the moment a sad and sorely 
tried fellow. 

Now see what has happened to us ! Deacon Green, assisted by 
his friend Mr. Timothy Plunkett. had prepared some instructive 
paragraphs concerning certain noted men of history, and no sooner 
were they put in type than a young compositor tumbled them into 
pi. He at once, in the excitement of the moment, did his best to 
restore the paragraphs, but ah ! what a mess he made of the work ! 

When the Deacon heard of it, he WTOie, in his hearty way : 

" Never mind ! The boys and girls of St. Nicholas shall make 
all straight. Print it just as it is, call it Historical Pi, and tell the 
young folks that I, Deacon Green, happen to have by me exactly 
one hundred new one-dollar bills, all of which shall be given as 
prizes for restoring the pi, viz. : one bill for each of the one hundred 
best solutions received. The conditions are that the paragraphs 
are to be restored with perfect accuracy as to historical fact and 
the punctuation of e%'ery sentence; that the solution must be written 
on one side of the paper only, and addressed to Deacon Green, care of 
The Century Co., Union Square (north), N.Y. — and that not only 
accuracy, but neatness and penmanship, are to be considered in decid- 
ing upon the best solutions. Every word, every letter, every punctu- 
ation point that was in the original paragraphs is also in the pi, and 
all that is necessary is to make sure that, in the re-arrangement, they 
all get into the right places. The prizes will be awarded by a com- 
mittee of seven, including the editor of St. Nicholas, 'The Little 
School-ma'am," Mr. Timothy Plunkett, and 

" The children's to command, Silas Green.' 

Now, you shall have the Pi, just as the Deacon returned it. 
Fortunately, no one word is injured in the least; and the opening 

sentence is unharmed. But look at the rest of the paragraphs \ 
Even the names are divided and mL\ed up ' 

Historical Pl 

We propose to mention here a few of the world's great generals, 
inventors, discoverers, poets, and men of noted deeds. 

George Stephenson wxs bom at Carthage, which city was so hated 
by Goethe that he rarely made a speech without saying : and 
"Carthage must be destroyed!" Of other noted generals, Eli 
Whitney was a Roman; Shakespeare was a Prussian; James Watt 
was a Corsican ; and Hannibal is an American. 

It is believed that Charles Darwin invented Man ; Newton, the 
horse; Julius Caesar, the monitor; Napoleon, the blood; Frederick, 
the sewing-machine ; Cato, the circulation of the earth ; that Erics- 
son invented the satellites of Jupiter; that Bucephalus frequently 
discovered the law of gravitation and Dante the revolution of the 
steam-boat ; Galileo the Great, the telegraph ; William Harvey 
Bonaparte, the steam-engine ; Elias Howe and Bloiidin, the cotton- 
gin of the telescope and Dr. Tanner, the fastest, if not the most fiery, 
naturalist of ancient times, discovered the theory of The Descent. 

Among poets, the greatest in all history is Samuel Morse; while 
Robert Fulton ranks highest in the poetry of Germany, and Ulysses 
S. Grant in that of Italy. John and Isaac are famous English poets 
of our day. 

Many men have performed special feats. Alexander conquered 
and rode the locomotive; Tennyson crossed the Niagara River on 
the tight-rope; and Browning claims to have lived forty days with- 
out eating. 

Now, young folk, one and all, who of you will belong to the fort- 
unate one hundred who are to receive the Deacon's dollar-bills ? 

Remember, the hundred prizes are for the best hundred solutions 
received before January loth, i88z, and they shall be awarded even 
if not a single solution should prove to be absolutely correcL A 
"Solution" is the entire pi properly straightened and written out 
according to the above directions. 

Send your full post-office address, and state whether you are 
under or over fifteen years of age. 


The news of the sudden death of Dr. J. G. Holland comes to us 
just as this number is going to press, and therefore we can add only 
a few words to the sad announcement. Dr. Holland's life and 
work, as author, lecturer, and editor, are familiar to some of our 
readers, and to many thousands of parents all over the land. Our 
next number will contain a paper conceming the helpful influences 
which he exerted upon young people. Meanwhile, it should inter- 
est all our boys and girls to know that, while a member of the com- 
pany which publishes St. Nicholas, his generous spirit showed 
itself constantly in his hearty enthusiasm for the magazine, and for 
any new or special delight which we were able to bring to our read- 
ers. His kindliness and high courtesy were always among the most 
cherished associations of the editorial offices. 

Our thanks are due to Messrs. Jouvet & Co., of Paris, for their 
kind permission to reproduce in this number their beautiful engrav- 

ings of Raphael's " Madonna di San Sisto " and ** La Madonna della 
Sedia" ; and we are indebted to Messrs. Goupil & Co., of Paris, for 
their courteously allowing us to copy, for our frontispiece this month, 
the fine picture of "The King's Favorite," by the famous Spanish 
painter, Zamacois. 

Acknowledgment is also made to Messrs. Porter & Coates, of 
Philadelphia, owners of the copyright of the poem " All Quiet along 
the Potomac to-night" — which, through their courtesy, is given to 
our readers in the present chapters of " Recollections of a Drummer- 

The Very Little Folk will find for themselves charming stories in 
the pretty silhouettes given on pages 1 76 and 1 77, and which we have 
copied from a book printed in far-away Russia. 

It is an excellent plan, as many wise mothers and teachers well 
know, to encourage young folk to reaa aloud from pictures as well 
as frt)m printed words. These bright glimpses of " little boys " and 
"little girls" will set many a toddler talking, or we are much 



We had' hoped to notice in this month's " Letter-box" the many 
capital letters that have been received in response to our request for 
" New Games " and lo the September " Invitation to our Readers." 
But the pressure upon our space in this number has been so great, 
that wc are forced to defer our special acknowledgment of these 
hearty communications until next month — meanwhile, thanking the 
generous young writers, each and all, for the promptness and earnest 
spirit of iheir replies. Wc shall be glad if others of our readers, 
who may have failed to send answers, in fear of being too late, will 
regard the invitations as still open to them and foru'ard their letters 

A CHARMING little book just published by Messrs. J. R. Osgood 
& Co., with colored illustrations in the Kate Greenaway style, is 
entitled "The Glad Year Round." The author, A. G. Plympton. 
is well known to many of our readers through the capital " Mar>' 
Jane" stories contributed lo St. Nicholas. "The Glad Year 
Round " is full of good things both in text and pictures. It u-ill cer- 
tainly delight the young folk of every household into which it enters, 
and will make a beautiful holiday gift. 

Another pretty volume is " The May Blossom" or " The Princess 
and Her People." illustrated by H. H. Kmmer^on, and published in 
New York by A. C. Armstrong & Son, and in London by F. Wamc 
& Co. The illustrations are in color throughout, all interesting, and 
some of them unusually hne. Although not announced in the book, 
it is evident from the pictures that the "Little Princess" is the good 
Queen Victoria, and the illustrations in which the Princess appears 
probably represent actual scenes in the child-life of that gracious 
lady. The book comes in happily at this holiday season for those 
who are seeking pretty Christmas presents for young folk. 

The editor hopes that not a single reader oi St. Nicholas, — 
whether interested in history and art or not, — will "skip" the admi- 
rable articles by Mrs. Clement, which have now reached the era of the 
great masters of painting. For these papers arc anything but dry 
descriptions and biographies, and, as shown in the article on Raphael 

in this number, contain many charming stories and legends, full of 
interest to young readers. 

The list of Raphael's works was crowded out of the pages contain- 
ing the article, and therefore is given here. It must be remembered, 
however, that, as Mrs. Clement tells you in the article, the great 
artist left nearly three hundred pictures and more than five hundred 
studies and sketches, so that the following list mentions, of course, 
only the most important existing works of Raphael, and where they 
now are: 

The Madonna di Foligno, Vatican, Rome. 

The Transfiguration, Vatican, Rome. 

The Violin -player, Sciana Palace, Rome. 

St. Cecilia, Pinakothek, Bologna. 

Several fine portraits, Piiti G.illery, Florence. 

La Madonna delta Sedia, Pitti Gallery, Florence. 

Holy Family, called "Dell" Impannata," Pitti Gallery*, Florence. 

The Madonna del Baldacchino, Pitti Gallery, Florence. 

The Madonna "del Gran Duca," Pitti Gallery, Florence. 

The Madonna of the Goldfinch, Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

Sl John in the Desert, UflTui Gallery, Florence. 

Portrait of Pope Julius IL, Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

Lo Sposalizio, The Brcra, Milan. 

Adoration of the Shepherds, Museum, Berlin. 

Madonna and Child and John Baptist, Museum, Berlin. 

Madonna di San Sisto, Gallery at Dresden. 

Seven pictures in the Pinakothek, Munich. 

Seven pictures in the Museum, Madrid. 

Ten pictures in the Louvre, Paris. 

The Vision of a Knight, National Gallery-, London. 

St. Catherine of Alexandria, National Gallery, London. 

The " Gar\'agh " Madonna, National Gallcrj', London. 

Two fine Madonnas, The Hermitage, St. Petersburg. 

St. George and the Dragon, The Hermitage, St. Petersburg. 

In the " Double Acrostic," on page 88 of the November number, 
the description of the fifth cross-word should have read as follows: 
.'\n island named by a sailor, credited with wonderful adventuies, in 
describing his sixth voyage. 



The competition for the prize ofifered for the best six specimens of 
pressed flowers was not very extended, owing, doubtless, to the fact 
that the time during which the collections had to be made was 
limited and came during the extremely hot months of July and 
August. All that were sent, however, were dese^^■ing of much 
credit. The prize of an Anierican Plant Book is awarded to Miss 
S. E. Arnold, of the Hartford, N. Y., Chapter. The contest for the 
saw of the saw-fish has been much more exciting; almost cverj- 
mail has brought one or more essays on the curious Pristis, detailing 
the strange habits of the fish and the deeds of its wonderful saw. 

After careful comparison, the saw is awarded to Master T. Mills 
Clarke, of Southampton. There were others who sent reports more 
elegantly written, and longer; but his smacked least strongly of the 
cyclopedia, and is on the whole most satisfactory. His drawing of 
the fish is reproduced upon the next page, and his report is as follows : 

The Saw-fish. 

The saw-fish (Pristis) is a ^enus of cartilaginous fishes consti- 
tuting the family Pristido", which is ranked with the rays, but the 
elongated form of its body agrees rather with that of the sharks. 
Still, it differs from the sharks, and agrees with the rays, in several 
anatomical characters, most conspicuously in that it has the gill 
openings on the under surface, as in rays, and not on the side, as in 
sharks. Several of the rays seem to have weapons of offense or 
defense — indeed, you might say all of them, the sea-eagle being the 
only kind, as far as I can find, which is not armed in some way, 
several of them being armed with terrible spines. The torpedo is 
armed with electricity, and the saw-fish itself is armed by having its 
snout elongated into a flat, bony sword, sometimes five or six feet 

longr, with from twenty to thirty bony spines or teeth on each side. 
This terrible instrument seems to be used in killing its prey; and it 
dashes about among the shoals of fish, slaying them right and left. 
This saw is indeed a terrible weapon. It is said that even whales are 
often slain by it, and the hulls of vessels pierced by its fearful power. 
An East Indian species lives partly in fresh water. 1 he saw-fish is 
grayish-black above, and lighter beneath. It is a very rapid swim- 
mer, and is often found far out at sea. 

There are six or seven known species of the saw-fish, which are 
found all over the world, from the pole to the tropics. The common 
saw-fish (Pristis antiqiwrum) is found in the Mediterranean, and 
was known to the ancients, but no species is included in the list of 
Britisih fishes. 

It is found off the coast of Florida, and is occasionally found all 
along the eastern coast of the United States and Canada. 

The fish are often (including the saw, which is generally about 
one-third of the entire length) eighteen feet long. 

Those of you who have become interested in this fish will be glad 
to read Hugh Miller's book, "Foot-prints of the Creator." In it 
he tells how he once discovered part of .in ancient skeleton embed- 
ded in a rock in Orkney. It proved to be a bone of the AstcroUpis 
— so far as is yet known, the most gigantic ganoid of the Old Red 
Sand-stone, and, judging from the place of this fragment, apparently 
one of the first. Now the placoid family of fishes, to which our 
saw-fish belongs, is still older than the ganoid family, and many 
things of great interest are told about these old monsters in Mr. 
Miller's book. The meaning of the words Pristis antiquontnt is 
the saw-fish of the ancients. 

Of course most of our information regarding such creatures must 
come from books; but when we come to "sand-dollars," and such 
small specimens as can be obtained along any of our coasts, we are 
sure to get some information from some member who relies for 
knowledge mainly on his eyes; as the following letter shows: 




Galveston, Texas, Sept. 9, 1881. 
Dear Sir : I noticed your request to some dweller by the ocean, 
to write a description of the sand-dollar and its habits. I caught 
one while I was in bathing in the Gulf of Mexico. It was the first 
one that I had ever seen alive. It was covered with short spines, and 
was of a handsome violet red. Here it is called the Texas star-fish. 
After finding it, I searched for it in several 
books. After some time my search was re- 

warded. Its zoological 
name is ClyPfoster Ro- 
sacciis (rosy shield-star) ; and it be- 
longs to the family of Ecki?u>der- 

tnaia or sea-urchins. It is supplied with six ambulacra, or 
feet. I have often picked them up on the beach here. They 
rarely exceed two inches in width. — Yours truly, 

Philip C. Tucker, Jr. 

Not long ago I received from a lady of Galveston a specimen of 
this "Texas star" — which I imagine may, oddly enough, be the 
identical one that the writer of the above 
letter found. This letter seems to indi- 
cate as much ; 

Galveston, Texas. 
Dear Sir: In St. Nicholas for Sep- 
tember mention is made of what you call 
sand-dollar. We call it "Texas star." You 
ask who has seen one alive. I send you 
one taken from the Gulf of Me.vico, last 
month (August), by a boy, who, while 
bathing, dived and brought it up. Though 
dry, you can yet see t5ie hairy coat it is 
covered with. WTien first taken from the 
water you could see this hairy coat move, 
which proved it was alive. I was always 
under the impression that it was peculiar 
to our coast. — Respectfully, 

Mrs. M.'E. Steele. 

Our Texas friends will have to relin- 
quish their "patent " on this little urchin, 
for he is found abundantly along the coast 
'*f Massachusetts, and probably any- 
where along the Adantic coast between 
there and the Gulf. 


The following new Chapters have been admitted to the "A. A." : 
No- 0/ 
Name. ^fembers. Secretary s AJJress. 

Lansing, Mich. (A) 10. .Mrs. N. B. Jones. 

St. CroTx, Wis. (A) 8 . . Ray L. Baker. 

Chicago (C) 5. . Nelson Bennett, 65 Cicero st. 

Leonidas, Mich. (A) — . . Adelbert S. Covey. 

Hartford, Cl (B) 12. .F. Parsons, 55 Prospect si. 

Middletown, Cl (A) 12.. Philip P. Wells. 

Oakland, Cal. (B) 5 . . Geo. S. Meredith. 

7. .Frank Eliel. 
— . -John T Nixon (Pres). 
13. -John W. Jordan. 
:5.. Robert M. Royce. 
6. .Nannie G. Poore. 




La Porte, Ind. (A) 
Osage City, Kan. (B) . 

Limerick, 111. (A) 

Lebanon Springs, N. Y. (A) 
Newburyport, Mass. (A) . 

Chicago, (D) 

Washington, D. C. (C)... 

.Emily K. Newcomb, 1336 

nth St., N- W. 
.R. T. Taylor, 131 Adams st. 

110. Frankford, Pa. (A) 18 

Will the secretaries of Chapters 99 and 104 kindly forward names 
of all members for our register ? 

In July St. Nicholas, an error of the printer made Chapter 96 
hail from Stanton, instead of Taunton, Mass., and the secretary of 
said chapter is now F. H. Lothrop. 

The secretary of Chicago (D) writes: 

There are four of us boys who would like to join the "A. A." 
We ha\e been waiting with longing hopes for the 15th of Septem- 
ber. We have quite a collection of geological specimens, and also 
insects, and have made a cabinet to hold them all, but it is hard work 
to find specimens in the city, and we have to make trips into the 
woods after our butterflies and moths. 

The secretary of No. 107 says : 

If any of the members have mothers who are of the same opin- 
ion as mine, that inexperienced girls and boys should not handle 
poisons, I would advise them to put any butterflies, etc., which they 
wish to kill, under a goblet, or in an odorous cigar-box with 

Mr. Crucknell writes : We thinfc it would be best for all the 
members to have the same kind of badge, the only thing different 
being the name of the chapter. 

Apropos of the badge, here is the manner in which the Nashua, 
N. H., Chapter has cut the knot: 

Sept. 17. We held a meeting in our club-room, and decided the 
badge question. We decided to have a blue ribbon 2 f^ inches long by 
I ^ wide, with lettering on it in gilt [see first columnj. What do you 
think of it? Our members are very much pleased with it. 

It seems to us pretty, and perhaps 

nothing more generally acceptable 

could be devised. We would suggest, 

however, that the inscription would be 

moresatisfactory if it ran asin the cut 

below; it is easier to infer that the 

last " A." stands lor " Chapter A." 

than that the "N."stands for"Nash- 

au, N. H." If the corresponding 

THE saw-fish. members of the Lenox Chapter like 

this idea, let us know at once, and badges will be provided which can 

he ordered direcdy from us, as desired. Each Chapter will, of 

course, provide its own badges. 

Chapter no sends a very neat litde book, containing the constitu- 
tion and by-laws of the Frankford Chapter. It is the best yet. 

Requests for Ex'Changes. 

Eggs, minerals, and shells, for gold 
or silver ore — Whitney Kirke, 1518 
N. 18th street, Philadelphia, Pa- 
Mounted Sea-weed — R. S. Tarr, 
Gloucester, Mass., Box 729. 

Prepared woods, pressed flowers, 
or mounted sea-weed, for mounted 
birds, or labeled eggs — Frank N. 
Barrows, Lenox, Mass. 


Where can I get entomological 
supplies, such as pins, nets, etc. ? 
Frank E. Austin, 

Northampton, Mass. 

We wish to know how many eyes 
a fly has. We suppose the red spots 
on each side of the head are the 
compound eyes, but has he any oth- 
ers? If so, how — ■-_ 


many? We 
have obser\ed 
a horn protrud- 
ing from the 
mouth of a lo- 
cust. What is 


D. C, Chap- 
ter C. 
Notes bv Members. 

In the August report it says: "The king- 
fisher lays two white eggs on a nest of fish- 
bones." I have often found the eggs deposited 
on the floor of the room at the end of the 
hole, and never found a nest containing less 
than six eggs, and often eight or nine. The 
following is a ground plan of a hole that I dug 
out this spring. It was about five feet deep. 
Harry G. White, Taunton, Mass. 

I send drawings and descriptions of three 
birds. These descriptions are made from my 
own observations of the living birds. The draw- 
ings are copied by myself from *' Wilson's 
Birds," and I am twelve years old. 

Respectfully yours, D. M. Perine. 

„,, J . II I J . kingfisher's 

I he drawings were excellently made, the nest-hole 

descriptions fine, and the methods of study 

worthy the imitation of members who are puzzled as to what they 
can do "in a city." We will give one of these descriptions next 
month, but must now bid our members (numbering nearly 1300) 
a temporary adieu. 

Harlan H. Ballard, Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. 

THE R 1 1) L) L E - B O X . 



Answers to All the October Puzzles were received, before October 20, from " Skipper " — Frederica and Andrew Davis — 
" Mama and Ba" — Two Subscribers — F. Th waits — H. C. Brown — M. and E. Pc la Ouerra — Gucsser — F. L. Kyte — E. Vultee. 

Answers to Puzzlks in the October number were received, before October 20, from Etta Hawxhurst, i— Robert Van K. Hams, 3 

— *' Kid." 5 — Edith Sinclair, i — Anna B. Ely, 1 — Waldo S. Reed, i— Alcibiades, 7 — Lottie and Milton Laccy, 10^ Milan Goodrich, i 

— "Dorothy," 14 — Florence P. Jones, i — May I. Jones, i — Jennie Callmeycr, 9 — " Crocus," 2 — Clara, 14— " Professor & Co.," lo— 
Effie K.. Talboys, o— Alice S. Rhoads, 6^ Rose O. Raritan, 2 — Tommy and Jack, 5 — Louis B. Frankel, 3— " Two Dromios," 13 — 
Algic Tassin, 5 — Nanna D. Stewart, 2 — Nannie Duff, i — B. and F. families, 12 — MoIUe Weiss, 4 — "Bassanio," 2 — Bessie Taylor, 6 — 
P. S. Clarlcson, 14 — Clarence Reeves, i— Edward Dana Sabine, 1 — *' Puss-in- Boots," 3— Ellen Louise Carman, 3 — Mattie E. Janscn, 4— 
Geo. W. Barnes, ^— "X. Y. Z.," i— M. A. Snow, 4 — C. Power, 8 — M. Chcsebroiigh, 2— T. Minot, i— L P. Bostwick. 8 — G. R. 
Ingraham, 13 — Engineer, 12 — A. Ward, 4 — Roderick, 3 — J. S. Tennant, 13 — Comie and May, 7 — F. C. McDonald, 14 — E. M. 
Parker. 4— " Puck," i— Daisy May, 13— Queen Bess, 14— H. L. Pruyn, 3— L. Clarke and N. Caldwell, 5— Henry and John, 7— A. 
Pcierkin, i — Partners, 12 — L. McKinney, 11 — Shoo-fly, 11 — Saliic Viles, 10 — Peierkin Family, 1— Willie V. Draper, i. 

Answkrs to September Puzzles were received, too late for acknowledgment in the November number, from May B. and Alfred 
B. Creighton, Nova Scotia, 7 — Edmund Walter Winipcris, London, England, 4 — '* Dycie," Havre, France, 11 — Fanny J. Dennis, Cecil 
S. Hand, and William H. Buckler, London, England, all — George S. Hayicr, Jr., Highgatc, England, 2 — L. and W. McKinney, 7. 

The names of solvers are printed in the second number after that in which the puzzles appear. 



All the characters referred to are to be found in Sir Walter 
Scott's noveU ; and the titles of two of his works are named by the 
Primals and Finals. 

Cross-wokds; 1. The hero of an early novel, who was stolen 
in his infancy. 2. A commander of the Covenanters, mentioned in 
the ■* Legend of Montrose," who took part in the engagement at 
Tippcmuir. 3. The rejected suitor of Amy Robsart. 4. The name 
of a beautiful Jewess. 5. The discoverer of the jjretended Popish 
plot in " Peveril of the Peak." 6. An English colonel who obtains 
the pardon of Edward Waverly, when guilty of treason. 7. The 
name of a noble lady, the ward of George Heriot, occurring in the 
"Fortunes of Nigel." 8. The name of the owner of "Wolfs 
Crag," who perished in a quicksand, o. A nobleman who was a 
favorite of Queen Elizabeth, and husband of Amy Robsart. i. s. 


Is some parts of Germany there is obscr\-ed the following custom: 
On a certain day, a quaintly dressed man visits the homes of the 
children, and on such as have beeen dutiful, he bestows various 
gifts. The 6rst letter of the name given to the person who distrib- 
utes the presents, and the first letter of the day on which the pres- 
ents are distributed, arc to be found " in crack, but not in hole"; 
the second letters, "in panther, not in mole," and so on, till the 
name of the person and day have been rightly spelled : 

In crack, but not in hole; 

In panther, not in mole; 

In cinder, not in soot; 

In inch, but not in foot; 

In short, but not in long; 

In twitter, not in song; 

In rhyme, but not in lay; 

In auburn, not in grey ; 

In spring, but not in fall; 

In slender, not in small ; 

In rats, but not in mice; 

In pretty, not in nice. parthema. 


The Unes of each couplet rhyme, and the omitted words may all 
be formed from the thirteen letters omitted in the last line., 

A fair little maid, with the kindest **«**, 
Flitted about to bazar and to *•*•. 

Purchasing gifts, if rightly I guess; 

First, 't was a doll, then a board to play *****. 

Then, dear Mamma! — 't was surely no **** 
To buy for her watch-chain a tiny gold ***** 

Hours seemed just little inches of**** ; — 

They flew till she found she had spent her last***'. 

Then, turning homeward, this fair little **** 
Saw one whom she pitied and gladly would ***. 

"Are you not cold, little girl, with that *****, 
And what is your name?" She replied, " It is Bess. 

"Yes, I am cold, but," — her eyes they grew **^', — 
" But I 'm only thinking of sick brother *** ; 

"He 's home, and he 's lame, and he never was **--** ; 
I wish I could buy him just one little •***." 

Her sorrow our fair little maid could not ****. 
" My purse is quite empty," she whispered *****. 

" But here 's my gold dollar — ; 't is precious ! no ****** ! 
Her face is so blue, and her teeth — how they *"<**'*^/' 

Then, speaking aloud, — " Little girl, come with **, 
For first you need clothing, — that plainly I see. 

" A part of my wardrobe and supper I 'II spare, 
And poor little Tim, too, shall have his full *****."' 

Very happy that night were those three little******; 
One happy from giving, — two happy with **»**. 

And our dear little maiden's sweet joy will abide. 
And she long will remember that glad ********* **--** . 



Each of the words described contains five letters, and the synco- 
pated letters, placed in the order here given, spell the name of a 
famous English philosopher, who was born on Christmas Day, 1642. 

1. Syncopate to besiege, and leave a vegetable. 2. Syncopate to 
balance, and leave a formal attitude. 3. Syncopate to sharpen, and 
leave a check. 4. Syncopate a river in France, and leave learning. 
5. S_yncopate dispatch, and leave to detesL 6. Syncopate a minute 
particle, and leave a smirk. 7. Syncopate a country in Europe, and 
leave to whirl. 8. Syncopate worldly pelf, and leave a snare. 
9. Syncopate to chop in small pieces, and leave rodent anirr.als. 10. 
Syncopate to delude, and leave small talk. 11. Syncopate an 
under-ground canal, and leave a soothsayer. 12. Syncopate rhythm, 
and leave a small lake. 13. Syncopate to be buoyed up, and leave 
insipid. 14. Syncopate a weapon, and leave to f;isten with a cord. 



Cut off my head, — a title you will see; 
Cut off my tail, — you '11 find me on a tree; 
Cut both off, and it truly may be said 
I still remain a portion of the head. 
Curtail me twice, and then there will appear 
A dainty edible, for spring-time cheer. 
Though deep in tropic seas my whole is found. 
It often glimmers in the dance's round. 



I AM composed of forty-seven letters, and am a well-known saying 
by a famous man. 

My 25-36-33-44-7-14-27 is this evening. My 43-26-28 is a fixed 
regulation. Sly 3-40-37 is an uproar. My ^1-36-35 is land. 
My 18-32-38-15 is an instrument for grasping things closely. My 
22-19-24 are "children of a larger growth, ' My 39-2-24-46 is 
general character. .My 10-22-5-10-20 is an Arabian ruler. My 42- 
17-1 is a bulky piece of timber. My 4-2-29-47-13 is to prepare for 
food by exposure to heat. My 28-6-11-12-2-28-47 are casements. 
My 9-6-8 IS a transgression. My 31-40-45-46 is the home of cer- 
tain insects. My 16-17-2-30-15 is a tailor's smoothing-iron. My 
2i-23-34-4-i7is an African. a. h. and g. h. 

1 84 




r"^?" of the small pictures may be described by a word which rhymes with "celebration." The initial letters of the words to be 
supplied spell two words which fitly describe one of the above illustrations. The following lines hint at the meaning of each picture : 

My first is kingly 

My second, vague 

My third, an intimate - 
My fourth, a formal — 

My fifth, a courtly 

My sixth, a trying 

My seventh, decided — 

My eighth, a heated 

My ninth, a thorough — 

My tenth is saying " — 

My eleventh is lofty 

My twelfth is tearful 

My thirteenth, welcome ■ 

My fourteenth, final 


Numerical Enigma : " The wisdom of many, and the wit of one. ' 
Zig-zag. Nutcrack night- Cross-words: i. Near. 2. BUm 
3. MaTe. 4. ChiC. 5. TaRe. 6. SAte. 7. Core. 8. SKin, 
9. PaNe. 10. Lodl. ir. PaGe. 12. SHed. 13. Tell. 

Combination Puzzle. Thanksgi\-ing. i. Stage — gaTes. 
Throe — otHer. 3. Regal — glAre. 4. Roman — maNor. 5. Spike 
— piKes. 6. Saves — vaSes. 7. Rouge— roGue. 8. Tints — stint, 
9. Drove— roVed. 10. Withe — white. 11. Noted — toNed. 12, 
Gapes — paGes. 



2. Aside. 

3. Risen. 4 
3. Rural. 4 

Two Word-Squares, 
Ideas. 5. Sense. 11. i. Larch. 
Crane. 5. Helen. 

Charade. Fox-glove. 

Novel Double Acrostics. I. Odin — Thor. Cross-words 
I. COaTs. 2. IDaHo. 3. BIgOt. 4. ANgRy. II. Edda — Saga 
Cross-words: i. FEaSt. 2. IDeAl. 3. ADaGe. 4. PApAl. 

Diamond, i. C. 2. Car. 3. Caper. 4. Captain. 5. Realm. 
6. Rim. 7 N. 

Rebus: "A prince can make a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man 's above his might" 

Robert Burns, in '^ Honest P<n>erty." 

Double Decapitations, i. S-t-ray. 2. S-t-rap. 3. S-t-ale. 

Quadruple Acrostic. Reading across: 1. BmD. z. RoaR. 
3. AriA. 4. GliB. 

Double Acrostic. Agassiz — Audubon. Cross-words : i. 
AgricolA. 2. GnU. 3. AmenD. 4. SoU. 5. SeneriB. 6. 
IndigO. 7. ZitherN. 

Central Syncopations. Purse. 1. Se-P-al. 2. Fo-U-nd. 
3. Ho-R-se. 4- Ba-S-il. 5- St-E-ep. 

Changed He.\ds. 1. Bat 2. Cat. 3. Mat. 4. Hat 5. Nat. 
6. Pat. 7. Rat. 8. Sat. 9. Fat. 10. Vat. 


\\\f\ A Sack, /Kn6^oT\\of^eD^rHKr/\m SkooLQ 

Fill iF A/vd Evcn TifLPEO Hia\ NEVEf^ SAy//va/4 


Vol. IX. 

JANUARY, 1882. 

No. 3. 

[Copyright, 1881, by The CENTURY CO.] 

By Julia D. Fay. 

Long before the great king Charlemagne ruled 
over Germany and France, the mountain forests 
that border the Rhine were peopled by gnomes and 
dwarfs, witches and fairies, some of whom were 
very mischievous and could never be trusted, while 
others did kind deeds for the people. 

They all were under the control of a fairy king, 
■who lived in the deepest recesses of the mountains, 
and whose palace was so vast that it reached even 
under the river. On moonlight nights, the river 
fairies could be seen playing in the clear waters, 
sometimes enticing fishers to their death, by 
showing them gold and jewels ; for the poor sim- 
ple fishermen would dive down into the water and 
would never be seen again. But then there were 
good fairies among the mountains, and these gave 
presents to persons whom they thought deserving 
of rich gifts, for the mountains were filled with 
treasures of gold, silver, and precious jewels ; and 
my story is about a little boy who was rewarded 
by these good fairies. 

He was only a poor little shepherd-boy, and 
tended the flocks of a rich baron, whose castle stood 
high upon a rock that looked down over the valley 
where the little boy lived. His father was dead, 
and he was the only help of his mother and two 
litde sisters, Roschen and Elsie. They owned a 
little cottage, a goat, and a small bit of ground, 
which Max, for that was the boy's name, tilled in 
the evening, after the sheep were all safely penned 
for the night. 

He was always cheerful, and kind to all. He 
loved the beautiful river that flowed along so peace- 
fully, and the vine-terraces where grew the purple 
grapes. The dark forests, that seemed so still, filled 
Vol. IX. — 13. 

his heart with wonder and reverence toward the 
great Being who had made such a lovely world. 

Max longed to know how to read, so as to 
learn more about it all, and yet he worked on, early 
and late, and enjoyed even the air, and the flowers; 
and the butterflies, as they flew by him, made him 
glad that he was alive and well. 

But there came a day of sadness for poor little 
Max, in the winter time, for his mother w\is taken 
very ill, and the old nurse of the village, who took 
care of her, said that she must die unless an herb 
could be procured that grew in the mountains, and 
these were now covered with sno-.v, beneath which 
the herb lay buried. But Max did not despair ; he 
started forth, with his snow-shoes and a stout stick, 
to climb the mountain and find the herb that should 
cure his sick mother. 

It was cold, and the wind blew drearily through 
the trees ; still he tramped on boldly, until at last he 
stood on the summit of the mountain. The snow 
lay around like a soft white blanket, covering all 
the herbs, ferns, and flowers, keeping them warm 
and tucked out of sight until the spring time. It 
was not very deep, and Max, with a little spade he 
had brought along, pushed it aside, and there was 
the brown earth beneath. Yet in that spot there 
was no herb, but before his eyes there grew a beau- 
tiful, strange flower, whiter than snow, its heart like 
gold, and its perfume so sweet that it seemed like 
a breath from the gardens of heaven. Max gazed 
with longing upon its beauty, and his first thought 
was to pluck it and take it home, that they all might 
see its loveliness, but his second thought was, "Oh, 
no : I must find first the herb for to cure Mother, 
and then I can come here again for this flower 

1 86 



with which to gladden her eyes." So, with a part- 
ing look, he went farther on his search, found the 
precious herb, and with it safely in his pocket, 
came back to the spot where he had left the lovely 

Alas, it had disappeared ! But while the tears 
filled his eyes, the mountain where he stood opened 
wide, like a door, a dazzling fairy figure appeared, 
and a silvery voice said : 

" Enter, little Max, for thou didst first thy duty. 
Take what thou wilt of the treasures before thee. 
The Wonder-flower that thou hast seen, thou canst 
not take with thee. It blooms but once in a thou- 
sand years, and can only be seen by the pure in 
heart. Take of the gold and diamonds, love thy 
mother ever as now, aim to be a good man, and 
keep thy heart pure, that thou mayest again see the 
flower in the gardens of heaven, where a thousand 
years are but as a day." 

And the fairy vanished; but around in a great 
marble hall shone diamonds, and rubies, and bright 
bars of gold, before the eyes of the bewildered 
Max. A little brown dwarf, who seemed to be a 
guard over the treasures, gave him a sack and 
motioned that Max should fill it, and even helped 
him, never saying a word. When it was filled, it 
was so heavy that Max wondered how he could 
ever carry it home ; but while he hesitated, the 
dwarf threw it over his own shoulder, and beckon- 
ing Max to follow, crept out of the door ; and as 
Max followed, the mountain closed behind them, 
and the snow lay over it as before. 

It all would have seemed a dream, only that there 

stood the dwarf, with his pointed little hat, and 
strange face with eyes like a squirrel's. Not a word 
did he speak, but he trotted on down the mountain, 
and it seemed to Max scarcely an hour before they 
stood at its foot. There, with a bow, the dwarf set 
down the sack, and then he clambered up the 

Max hastened home as fast as he could with his 
heavy treasure, and gave the nurse the herb, hiding 
the sack under his bed, until his mother should be 
able to hear of his good fortune. 

The herb did its work so well that in a few days 
his mother was able to sit up, and then Max, with 
his hand in hers, and his little sisters standing by 
him, told her all. 

She clasped her hands, and said : 

" My sweet child, the dear God has been very 
good to thee. Thou hast seen the Wonder-flower 
that first blossomed when Christ was born, and that 
no one but an innocent child may see. Keep its 
beauty always in mind, else the treasure it brought 
will give thee no happiness. Let us thank the 
great God of heaven for his love to thee, a poor 
little shepherd-boy, to whom He has shown the 
Wonder-flower, which even the king himself may 
not see ! " 

And it was in this strange manner that Max's 
wish was at last granted ; for with his treasure to 
help him, he now could go to school, and learn all 
about the great world outside of his little Rhine 
valley. He hved to be an honored and learned 
man, always doing good to others ; and with all 
his wisdom he was as unassuming as a child. 






When I work in the 

house I always 

" How I 'd like to toil 

out of doors all 

And when they send 

me to weed the 

The day seems made 

of a hundred 

hours ! 

Bv Celia Thaxter. 

Sir William Napier, one bright clay, 
Was walking doun the glen — 

A noble English soldier, 

And the handsomest of men. 

Through fields and fragrant hedge-rows 

He slowly wandered down 
To quiet Freshford village, 

By pleasant Bradford town. 

With look and mien magnificent. 
And step so grand, moved he, 

And from his stately front outshone 
Beauty and majesty. 

About his strong white forehead 

The rich locks thronged and curled, 

Above the splendor of his eyes. 
That might command the world. 

A sound of bitter weeping 

Came up to his quick ear. 
He paused that instant, bending 

His kingly head to hear. 

Among the grass and daisies 

Sat wretched little Joan, 
And near her lay a bowl of delf. 

Broken upon a stone. 

Her cheeks were red with crying. 
And her blue eyes dull and dim. 

And she turned her pretty, woful face, 
All tear-stained, up to him. 

Scarce six years old, and sobbing 

In misery so drear ! 
' Why, what 's the matter. Posy ? " 
He said, — -"Come, tell me, dear." 

1 88 



It 's Father's bowl I 've broken ; 

'T was for his dinner kept. 
I took it safe, but coming back 

It fell" — again she wept. 

But you can mend it, can't you ? " 
Cried the despairing child 

With sudden hope, as down on her, 
Like some kind god, he smiled. 

Don't cr)', poor little Posy ! 
I can not make it whole. 

" Will not Sir William come and dine 
To-morrow with his friends ? " 

The letter read: '• And we 've secured 

The man among all men 
You wish to meet. He will be here. 

You will not fail us then?" 

To-morrow ! Could he get to Bath 
And dine with dukes and earls. 

And back in time ? That hour was pledged- 
It was the little girl's ! 

But 1 can give you sixpence 
To buy another bowl." 

He sought in vnin for silver 
In purse and pockets, too, 

And found but golden guineas. 
He pondered what to do. 

This time to-morrow. Posy," 
He said, " again come here. 

And I will bring your sixpence. 
I promise ! Never fear ! " 

Away went Joan rejoicing — 
A rescued child was she ; 

And home went good Sir William ; 
And to him presently 

A footman brings a letter, 
And low before him bends : 


He could not disappoint her. 
He must his friends refuse. 

So " a previous engagement " 
He pleaded as excuse. 

Next day when she, all eager. 
Came o'er the fields so fair, 

As sure as of the sunrise 

That she should find him there. 



He met her, and the sixpence 

Laid in her Uttle hand. 
Her woe was ended, and her heart 

The hghtest in the land. 

How would the stately company. 
Who had so much desired 

His presence at their splendid feast. 
Have wondered and admired ! 

As soldier, scholar, gentleman. 
His praises oft are heard, — 

'T was not the least of his great deeds 
So to have kept his word ! 


(Begun in the December Ulttnber.) 

By Frank R. Stockton. 

The day before Christmas, poor Count Cormo 
sat, quite disconsolate, in his castle-hall, before a 
hearth where there was no fire. He had sold his 
family bedstead, but he had received very little 
money for it. People said such old bedsteads 
were not worth much, even if they were inlaid with 
precious metals. So he had been able only to pre- 
pare a small tree, on which he had hung the cheap- 
est kind of presents, and his feast was very plain 
and simple. The Countess, indeed, was afraid the 
things would not go around, for their old servant 
had told them that he had heard there would be 
more children at the castle the next day than had 
ever been there before. She was in favor of giving 
up the whole affair and of sending the children 
home as soon as they should come. 

" What is the use," she said, " of having them 
here, when we have so little to give them ? They 
will get more at home ; and then if they don't come 
we shall have the things for ourselves." 

" No, no, my dear," said the Count; " this may 
be the last time that we shall have the children 
with us, for I do not see how we can live much 
longer in this sorrowful condition, but the dear 
girls and boys must come to-morrow. I should not 
wish to die knowing that we had missed a Christ- 
mas. We must do the best with what we have, 
and 1 am sure we can make them happy if we try. 
And now let us go to bed, so as to be up early 

The Countess sighed. There was only one lit- 
tle bedstead, and the poor Count had to sleep on 
the floor. 

Christmas-day dawned bright, clear, and spark- 
ling. The Count was in good spirits. 

" It is a fine day," he said to his wife, "and that 
is a great thing for us." 

"We need all we can get," said the Countess, 
"and it is well for us that fine days do not cost 

Very soon the Count heard the sound of many 
merry voices, and his eyes began to sparkle. 

" They are coming ! " he cried, and threw open 
the door of the castle, and went to meet his little 
guests ; but when he saw them he started back. 

"What do you think?" he exclaimed to the 
Countess, who stood behind him. "There is a 
long procession of them, and they are headed by a 
giant — the young giant Feldar ! Who ever heard 
of such a thing as a giant coming to a children's 
festi\al ! He will eat up everything we have in a 
few mouthfuls ! " 

"You might as well let him do it!" said the 
Countess. " There wont be enough for the others, 
any way. There seem to be hundreds of them ; 
and if there is n't a band of music striking up ! " 

Sure enough, quite a procession was approaching 
the castle. First came the giant Feldar, with Til- 
Ictte, the Httle fairy, on his finger ; then four or 
five musicians ; and after them a long line of 
children, all dressed in their best clothes, and 
marching two by two. 

" Merry Christmas! " shouted the giant, as soon 
as he saw Count Cormo, and then all the children 
shouted "Merry Christmas!!" until the castle 
court-yard echoed with the cheerful greeting, 
while the band played loudly and merrily. 

"Come in, my dears," cried the Count to the 
children. "I am glad to see you. But as for you, 
good giant, I fear my door is not quite large 

I go 



enough. But perhaps you can stoop and squeeze 
yourself in." 

" Count Cormo ! " cried the fairy, from the 
giant's finger. " I have a plan to propose." 

The good Count looked up in surprise. 

of the line of children and just behind the musi- 
cians. Then they all marched across the great 
court-yard to the old wing of the castle, and when 
they reached the doors of the great hall, the giant 
swung them open, and everybody entered. 


"If it is n't a dear little fairy ! " he exclaimed. 
" Why, certainly, if you have a plan to propose, I 
shall be happy to hear it." 

"Well, then," said Tillette, "suppose we go 
first into the great hall in the old wing of the 
castle. That is so large that it will hold us all, 
and we can have a grand dance, if we feel like it, 
after we get there." 

"I am afraid that the great hall would be very 
uncomfortable," said the Count. " No one has 
lived in it, nor even entered it, so far as I know, for 
many years ; and everything must be covered with 
dust and cobwebs." 

" But it would be so nice to march around that 
great hall with the music and everything. I don't 
believe there 's any dust." 

" Well, then," said the Count, " as you seem 
to have set your heart on it, we '11 go." 

So the Count and the Countess put on their hats 
and took their places in the procession, at the head 

Never were there two such astonished people as 
the Count and Countess ! 

Right in the middle of the hall stood a great 
Christmas-tree, which the giant had brought in on 
his shoulders from the woods. On the wide-spread- 
ing branches of this tall tree were hung hundreds 
of presents and sparkling ornaments. 

"What does this mean?" gasped the Count. 
" Whose tree is this ?" 

"It is yours! It is yours! "cried all the chil- 
dren in a merry chorus which made the old walls 
ring. " It is your Christmas-tree, and we, the 
children, who love you, give it to you ! " 

The Count looked around from one to another 
of the children, but did not say a word. His heart 
was too full for him to speak. Then the giant put 
the fairy on his shirt-frill, and, stooping down, took 
up the Count and Countess, one in each hand, 
holding them gently, but very firmly, and carried 
them around the tree, raising them up and down. 




so that they could see all the presents, even those 
at the very top. 

Everything was labeled — not with the name of 
the person they were for, for they were all for the 
Count and Countess, but with the names of those 
who gave them. 

Presently, the Count began to read out ever)' name 
aloud, and each time a child's name was called, all 
the other children would clap and cheer. There 
were a good many small bags, which looked as if 
they were very heavy, hanging here and there, 
and these were all marked " From Feldar," while 
some beautiful clusters of diamonds, which glit- 
tered in the sunlight that poured in through the 
windows, were labeled " From Tillctte." 

It took a long time to look at all the presents, 
which were rather different from the things gener- 
ally seen on Christmas-trees, for the great branches 
and boughs held every kind of useful and orna- 
mental articles that the Count and Countess 
needed. Many of these were old family treasures 
which they once had owned, but had been ol)liged 
to sell, to keep up their Christmas festivals. 

" Now for a dance ! " cried the fairy, in her clear 
little voice, and the music struck up, while all the 
children began to dance gayly around the tree. 

The Count and Countess, with the giant and 
fairy, stood aside, while this happy play was going 
on, enjoying it almost as much as the children, but 
when the dancing began to flag, the Count thought 
that the time had now come when the party ought 
to have something to eat, and his heart failed him 
when he thought of the very meager repast he had 
to offer them. 

But he need not have troubled his mind about 
that. As soon as the dance was done, the giant 
stepped to a door which led to another apartment, 
and throwing it open he cried : 

" Enter the banqueting-hall ! This is the feast 
the children give to the good Count Cormo and his 
wife. He has feasted them often and often, and 
made them happy, for many a Christmas. It is 
their turn now." 

Everybody trooped through the door, the chil- 
dren gently pushing the Count and Countess 
before them. The room was truly a banqueting- 


The Count and his wife were more and more 
delighted as they were carried around the tree, but 
at last this happy business was over, and the giant 
put them down upon the floor. 

hall. A long table was covered with every kind of 
thing good to eat, and, on smaller tables in the 
corners, was ever so much more, in case it should 
be needed. Here and there, on the long table, 




were enormous cakes, great bowls of jelly, and vast 

pies. Everybody knew these were for the giant. 

The Count and Countess took their places at the 

i iM U 


head and foot of the table ; and all the children 
gathered around, and everybody had a splendid 
appetite. Just in the center of the table there was 
a little table about three inches high, on which there 
were dear little morsels of the dainties the others 
were eating. At this table, on a little chair, the 
fairy Tillette sat, where she could see everything, 

and she enjoyed herself as much as anybody 
else did. 

When the banquet was over, they all went into 
the great hall, where 
they had dances and 
games and singing, and 
there never was a mer- 
rier company before. 

When evening ap- 
proached, the Count 
stood up and made a 
little speech. He tried 
to tell the children how 
good he thought they 
were, and how happy 
they had made him. 
He did not say much, 
but they all understood 
him. When he had 
finished, there was a 
silence over the whole 
room. The children 
looked at one another, 
some of them smiled, 
and then, all together, 
as if they had planned 
it out before, they cried : 
"The giant and the 
fairy did it all. He gave 
us the money and she 
told us what to buy." 

" Oh, pshaw ! " said 
the young giant, his 
face turning very red ; 
"I thought nothing was 
to be said about that," 
and he went outside 
so that nobody should 
make a speech to him. 
Now all the children 
came up, and each in 
turn bade the Count 
and Countess farewell, 
and then, headed by 
the giant's band of 
music, and singing mer- 
rily, they marched away 
to their homes. 

But Count Cormo 
would not let the giant 
and the fairy go away so soon. He made them 
come with him to the dwelling part of his castle, 
and there, after a little squeezing and stooping by 
the giant at the door, they all sat down around the 
hearth, on which a fine blazing fire had been built. 
" I don't know what to say, my dear Feldar," 
said the Count, "and I can never repay you " 




The giant was just about to exclaim that the 
Count need not say anything, and that he did not 
wish to be repaid, when, seeing he felt embarrassed, 
the fairy broke in : 

"Oh, yes, dear Count, you can repay him. Vou 
can adopt him. You have no children, you are 
getting old, and are living alone. He has no par- 
ents, — even his grandfather's uncle is now dead, 
— and he lives all by himself in his castle on the 
Shattered Crag. He is rich, and you can show- 

young giant kneeled on the floor; and the Count 
got up on a table, and put his hands on the young 
giant's head, and adopted hnn. 

" Now you ought to adopt her," said Feldar, 
after he had kissed the Count and Countess, and 
had sat down again by the fire. 

" No," said Tillettc, " 1 can not be adopted. But 
1 will often come to see you, and we shall be happy 
together, and the children will have a splendid 
Christmas festival every year." 


him how to do good with his great wealth. He 
could come amd live in the old wing of the castle, 
where the rooms are so large ; the furniture he has 
inherited could be sent here, and you could all be 
so happy together ! Will you take him ? " 

The Count's eyes filled with tears. 

" Would you like us to adopt you ? " he said to 

" Indeed I should," was the reply. Then the 

" As long as we live," said the Count and 

" As long as I live," said Feldar. 

When the Count and Countess went up to their 
room, that night, there they found the family bed- 
stead, all cleaned and polished, with its gold and 
silver ornaments sparkling like new. 

"What a happy Christmas I have had!" said 
good Count Cormo. 





By John Lewees. 

Among the animals that Uve partly in the water 
and partly on the land, that can run about on the 
shore and breathe the air just as well as we can, 
and yet dive under the water and swim like a fish, 
•one of the most interesting is the otter. A com- 
mon otter is about the size of a small dog, having 
a narrow body two feet long, and very short legs. 
It is covered with handsome fur next to its skin, and 
outside of this there is a coat of long, coarse hair. 

As this animal is very fond of the water, and 
lives principally on fish, it makes its home on the 
shore of a creek or river. This home is a hole 
under-ground, generally quite close to the water. 
The entrance to the burrow is always under water, 
and leads upward to the main apartment, which is 
dug out as high up in a bank as possible, so that, 
in case of a flood in the stream, the water v\ill not 
rise up along the entrance-way and into the otter's 
house. Sometimes the animal makes two or three 
•chambers, one above another, so that, in case the 
water should rise in a lower room, he and his family 
could go up higher, and keep dry. He does not 
mind being under the water for a time, but he 
can not live under water. From the top of his 
house up to the surface of the ground he makes a 
small hole to let in air ; so, you see, the otter is a 
very clever creature. The entrance to his house 
is hidden under water, where no dog nor other 
enemy is likely to find it, or to get in if they do find 
it ; and his home is so well planned that some part 
lof it is always dry and well ventilated. 

When the otter wants his supper, — for, as he eats 
only at night, it may be said that he takes neither 
breakfast nor dinner, — he slips quietly into the 
water, and as soon as he sees a fish, he gives chase 
to it. He has large, full eyes like a seal's, and he 
can see in the water as well as on land. He is 
web-footed, and his long, flexible body and stout 
tail enable him to move through the water with a 
motion very much like that of a fish. He can thus 
swim very fast, and few fish are able to escape 

During the day-time, the otter generally stays 
quiet in his burrow, but at night he comes out, and 
makes it very lively for the fish. Sometimes, when 
fish are scarce, he will do his midnight hunting on 
land, and will be glad to catch a chicken or any 
other small animal he may meet. 

If an otter is caught when it is quite young, it 
may be tamed. I once saw a couple of tame ones 
in New York, and they were as lively and playful 

as a pair of terrier dogs. Sometimes tame otters 
are trained to catch fish for their masters. In this 
kind of fishing, the otter shps quietly into the 
water, and generally catches first all the fish he 
wants to eat himself. When he has had enough, he 
brings the next one he catches to his master. A 
very well-trained otter will go into the water several 
times in this way, and frequently will bring out a 
large fish each time. Otters are occasionally em- 
ployed by fishermen who use nets. The nets are 
first set, and then the otters go into the water and 
drive the fish into the nets, where they are caught. 

There is a story told of a man in England who 
had a tame otter which followed him about on 
shore like a dog, and which, also, used to fish for 
him. The two companions would go out on the 
river in a boat, when the otter would jump over- 
board, and bring fish back to the man. If the 
animal staid away too long, his master would call 
him by his name, and he would immediately 

One day the man was away from home, and his 
young son thought it would be a good idea to take 
his father's otter and go fishing. So he took the 
little animal into the boat, and rowed out upon the 
river. The otter jumped into the river exactly 
as he used to do for the boy's father, but he staid 
below a long time, and when the boy called him he 
did not come back. Either he did not know his 
name when spoken by a strange voice, or he did 
not like the boy well enough to come back to him, 
for he remained out of sight, and after the boy 
had called him in vain for a long time, he was 
obliged to return to shore without him. 

Several days after this, the man was walking 
along the river-bank near the place where his son 
had gone fishing. He was greatly grieved at the 
loss of his pet otter, and I expect the boy had 
been whipped. The man stood at the edge of the 
water, and began to call the otter by his name. 
He did not think there was any particular use in 
doing this, but it reminded him of his little friend 
and of old fishing times. But you can scarcely 
imagine his astonishment when, in a few moments, 
his faithful otter came swimming out of the water, 
and lay down on the shore at his feet. If he had 
brought a string of fish along with him, 1 do not 
think the man could have been more surprised and 

In India and some other Eastern countries, this 
fishing with tame otters is made quite a business. 




Bishop Heber tells us tliat on tlio bank u( a river these otters were used for fishing, their native mas- 
in Hindostan he once saw eight or nine tine large ters did not set them loose and allow tliem to 
otters tied to stakes driven into the sand. These swim about as they pleased ; but made them go 


handsome fellows were either lying asleep on the into the water with the long cord still fastened to 
shore or swimming about in the water as far as their necks. In this way the otter could swim far 
their ropes would let them. It is likely that when enough to catch fish, and his master would be 




always sure of having his otter, whether he got 
any fish or not. 

In England, otter-hunting used to be a favorite 
amusement, and in some parts of the country it is 
carried on yet. A certain kind of dog, called the 
otter-hound, is especially trained for this sport, and 
the hunters use short spears. Some of the hunters 
and dogs go on one side of the stream where otters 
are expected to be found, and some on the other. 
If an otter has recently been along the bank, the 
dogs catch his scent, and they bark and howl, and 
scratch the ground, and the men shout and beat 
the reedy bushes and the shore until the poor otter 
is frightened out of his house, and takes to the 
water. But here he is discovered by the bubbles 
of air which come up where he is breathing, and 
the men wade into the stream and strike at the 
place where they suppose the otter is. The dogs, 
too, sometimes go into the water, and in this way 
the otter is either killed or driven ashore. When 
he goes on land he generally shows fight, and the 
dogs often have a very hard time before he is 

There are otters, however, which are much bet- 
ter worth hunting than the common otter. These 
are the great sea-otters, which are found in the re- 
gions about Behring's Straits and in Kamtschatka, 
also in some of the waters of South America. 
These are much larger than the common otter, 
some of them weighing seventy or eighty pounds. 
These animals are hunted for the sake of their fur, 
which is very valuable, and they are probably not 

so active and difficult to kill as the common otter, 
which has so many enemies that it is obliged to be 
very cunning and courageous. Up in those cold 
regions where the sea-otter lives, he is only occa- 
sionally disturbed by man, and probably never by 
any other creature. These otters do not appear to 
pursue ordinary fish in the water, but feed upon 
lobsters and other shell-fish. 

Sea-otters are said to be very affectionate to 
their young, but it is not likely that they are 
more so than the common otter ; the difference 
probably is that the sea-otter is much less wild and 
shy than the common otter, and its habits and dis- 
position toward its young are therefore more easily 
observed. Ordinary young otters, even when mere 
infants, will, at the slightest sign of danger, pop 
into the water with their parents, and come up in 
some spot among the reeds and grass where it is 
impossible to see them. 

There is an animal in this country which is 
placed by some writers in the otter tribe, although 
we do not generally consider it as such. This is 
the mink, or minx, and it is a great deal more 
troublesome to us than any ordinary otter ; for it 
does not confine itself to catching fish, but will 
come into a barn-yard and kill chickens or any 
other poultry it can lay hold of. Its work, like 
that of the common otter, is done at night. 

The fur of all the otter family is soft and valuable, 
and if it were not for this fact, there would proba- 
bly be a great many more otters in the world than 
there are now. 

By David Ker. 

About sixteen miles from St. Petersburg, in 
the midst of a wide plain, stands the Czar's country 
palace of Tsarskoe-Selo (Czar's Village), the great 
park of which is a very pretty place in fine summer 
weather. All through June and July, you may 
see the Russian children running about under the 
trees by scores, with a shouting and laughing that 
would do the Czar's heart good to hear, if he were 
anywhere within reach. In every shady spot you 
are pretty sure to find a picnic party making merry 

on the grass, with two or three well-filled lunch- 
baskets beside them; and when you come to the 
little summer-houses near the lake, you will most 
likely find at least half a dozen people in each, 
gathered around a big bowl of prostokvasli, which 
is the Russian name for curds and cream. 

This lake is one of the great "sights" of the 
park, for it has a boat-house filled with a model of 
every kind of boat in the world, down to Green- 
land fishing-boats and Polynesian war-canoes: and 



•when they are all sent floating over the lake after 
dark, hung with colored lamps, they make a very 
fine show indeed. But there is something even 
better worth seeing a little farther on, and that is 
the palace museum, filled with strange presents 
which have been given to the Russian Czars by 

lived about a hundred years ago, and was not only 
a count, but an admiral as well, though there were 
people who said that if he had had to manage 
the fleet by himself, instead of having three or four 
excellent naval commanders to help him, he would 
have made a poor job of it. But whatever doubts 

various kings, savage or civilized, from a jeweled 
sword presented by the first Napoleon to a Persian 
carpet sent by the Ameer of Bokhara. 

On a table near the door lies a very curious relic, 
which every one who comes in notices at once. It 
is a large silver dish, rolled up like a sheet of 
paper, so as to make a kind of funnel; and if you 
ask the old soldier who shows the museum how it 
came to be twisted up like that, he will give a 
knowing grin, and ask if you ever heard of Count 
Gregory Orlofi". 

This Gregory Orloff was a Russian count who 

there might be about his seamanship, there 
could be none about his strength, for he was one 
of the largest and most powerful men in Russia. 
Like many other giants, he was, perhaps, just a 
little too fond of showing off his great strength. 
Nothing pleased him more than to bend a horse- 
shoe between his fingers, or pull out of the ground 
a stake which no one else could move; and if one 
of his sailors turned mutinous, and began to make 
a noise, Orloff would just take him by the throat, 
and shake him as a cat shakes a mouse, after 
which the brawler was usually quiet enough. 

1 98 



Now, it happened that one night this strong- 
handed admiral was at an evening party at the 
palace, and as he was handing a bouquet of flow- 
ers to one of the ladies, the silver paper which was 
wrapped around it slipped off. Orloff said nothing, 
but stepped to the supper-table, and taking up a 
silver dish, rolled it up like a piece of paper, put 
the bouquet into it, and handed it to the lady; 
and this is the same silver dish which you now see 
in the museum. 

Not long after this, Orloff arrived in St. Peters- 
burg from a journey, and was met at his own door 
by a messenger from the palace, who told him 
that the Empress particularly wished to see him, 
and that he must go to her at once. Some men 
would have waited to put on their finest clothes, 
and to make themselves look quite gay and dan- 
dified ; but the admiral was used to obeying 
orders at once, and off he started for the palace, 
just as he was. 

Now, while the admiral had been journeying, there 
had come to the palace a new hall-porter who had 
never seen him before. This porter was a strong 
fellow, although not nearly as big as Orloff, and not 

a nice-tempered man by any means ; so when he 

saw this big, coarse-looking figure (for the admi- 
ral, with all his fine titles, was terribly ugly) com- 
ing up to the door of the stately palace in a dusty 
traveling-dress, he shouted fiercely : 

"Be off, you vagabond! You 've no business 
here ! Who ?Lrs yon, I should like to know ?" 

Orloff never answered, but stooped and picked 
up a long iron bar that fastened the door at night. 
One jerk of his great strong hands twisted it 
around the porter's neck like a ribbon, so that the 
poor fellow had to hold up the ends. 

"Now, my boy," said he, with a broad grin, 
"go and show yourself to the Empress with that 
iron collar on, and she will know who 1 am, even 
if you don't ! " 

Then the porter knew at once that this must be 
the terrible Count Orloff, of whose strength he had 
heard so much, and he fell on his knees to ask 
pardon. But Orloff only laughed, and told him 
not to be quite so ready to judge a man by his 
outside another time; and, indeed, from that day 
forth, the porter was always wonderfully civil to 

[Last month we gave you Mr. Peirce's account of the old-time wearers of the cap-and-bells. The day of 
the court jester has long since passed away, but his representative— after a fashion — lives in the well-known 
Clown of the circus and the pantomime show. Therefore, we are glad in the present number to follow Mr. 
Peirce's article with a narrative poem by Miss Vandegrift, showing how our modern Clown, like his earlier 
fellow, is a man at heart, notwithstanding his grotesque face and his "quips and cranks and wanton wiles." — Ed.J 


By M.'iRGARET Vandegrift. 

It was out on the Western frontier — 

The miners, rugged and brown, 
Were gathered around the posters ; 

The circus had come to town ! 
The great tent shone in the darkness. 

Like a wonderful palace of light. 
And rough men crowded the entrance - 

Shows did n't come every night ! 

Not a woman's face among them ; 

Many a face that was bad. 
And some that were only vacant. 

And some that were very sad. 




And behind a canvas curtain, 

In a corner of the place, 
The clown, with chalk and vermilion. 

Was " making up " his face. 

A weary-looking woman. 

With a smile that still was sweet, 
Sewed on a little garment, 

With a cradle at her feet. 
Pantaloon stood ready and waiting ; 

It was time for the going on, 

She lifted her baby gently ; 
"You '11 be very careful, dear?" 
" Careful ? You foolish darling " — 
How tenderly it was said ! 
What a smile shone through the chalk and 

paint — 
" I love each hair uf his head ! " 

The noise rose into an uproar. 

Misrule for the time was king; 
The clown, with a foolish chuckle, 


But the clown in vain searclied wildly; 
The "property-baby" was gone! 

He murmured, impatiently hunting ; 
" It 's strange that I can not find — 
There ! I 've looked in every corner ; 

It must have been left behind ! " 
The miners were stamping and shouting. 

They were not patient men. 
The clown bent over the cradle — 
" I must take you, little Ben ! " 

The mother started and shivered, 
But trouble and want were near ; 

Bolted into the ring. 
But as, with a squeak and flourish. 
The fiddles closed their tune, 
" You '11 hold him as if he was made of glass.'" 
Said the clown to pantaloon. 

The jovial fellow nodded ; 
" I 've a couple myself," he said, 
"I know how to handle 'em, bless you 1 

Old fellow, go ahead ! " 
Tlie fun grew fast and furious. 

And not one of all the crowd 
Had guessed that the baby was alive. 

When he suddenly laughed aloud. 




Oh, that baby-laugh ! It was echoed 

From the benches with a ring, 
And the roughest customer there sprang up 

With: "Boys, it's the real thing!" 
The ring was jammed in a minute, 

Not a man that did not strive 
For "a shot at holding the baby" — 

The baby that was "alive!" 

He was thronged by kneeling suitors 

In the midst of the dusty ring. 
And he held his court right royaUy, — 

The fair little baby-king, — 
Till one of the shouting courtiers, 

A man with a bold, hard face, 
The talk, for miles, of the country, 

And the terror of the place, 

Raised the little king to his shoulder, 
And chuckled, "Look at that! " 

As the chubby fingers clutched his hair. 
Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" 

There never was such a hatful 
Of silver, and gold, and notes ; 

People are not always penniless 
Because they don't wear coats ! 

And then, "Three cheers for the baby!' 

I tell you, those cheers were meant. 
And the way in which they were given 

Was enough to raise the tent. 
And then there was sudden silence. 

And a gruff old miner said, 
' Come, boys, enough of this rumpus ! 

It 's time it was put to bed." 

So, looking a little sheepish, 
But with faces strangely bright. 

The audience, somewhat Ungeringly, 
Flocked out into the night. 

And the bold-faced leader chuckled, 

"He was n't a bit afraid! 

He 's as game as he is good-looking — 
Boys, that was a show that paid .'" 



THE IIOOSIKR sen <)0 I.- 1!()V. 


Bv Edward Egglestox. 

Chapter \'. 


Excluded from the plays of the older fellows, 
Jack drew around him a circle of small boys, who 
were always glad to be amused with the stories of 
hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure that he 
had heard from old pioneers on Wildcat Creek. 
Sometimes he played " tee-tah-toe, three in a row," 
with the girls, using a slate and pencil ' in a way 
well known to all school-children. And he also 
showed them a better kind of " tee-tah-toe," 
learned on the Wildcat, and which may have been 
in the first place an Indian game, as it is played 
with grains of Indian corn. A piece of board is 
grooved with a jack-knife in the manner shown in 
the diagram in the next column. 

One player has three red or yellow grains of 
corn, and the other an equal number of white 
■ones. The player who won the last game has 
the " go" — that is, he first puts down a grain of 
corn at any place where the lines intersect, but 
usually in the middle, as that is the best point. 
Then the other player puts down one, and so on 
urrtil all are down, .'\ftcr this, the players move 
alternately along any of the lines, in any direction, 
to the next intersection, provided it is not already 
occupied. The one who first succeeds in getting 
his three grains in a row wins the point, and the 
board is cleared for a new start. As there are 
always three vacant points, and as the rows may be 
formed in any direction along any of the lines, the 
game gives a chance for more variety of cotnbina- 
tions than one would expect from its appearance. 

Jack had also an arithmetical puzzle which he 
had learned from his father, and which many of 
the readers of this story will know, perhaps. 

"Set down any number, without letting me 
know what it is," he said to Joanna Merwin. 

She set down a number. 

" Now add twelve and multiply by two. ' 

" Well, that is done," said Joanna. 

"Divide by four, subtract half of the number 
first set down, and your answer will be six." 

"Oh, but how did you know that I {jut down 
sixty-four ? " said Joanna. 

"'l did n't." said Jack. 

" How could you tell the answer, then ? " 

"That 's for you to find out." 

This puzzle excited a great deal of curiosity. To 

Vol. IX.— 14. 


add to the wonder of the scholars. Jack gave each 
time a different number to be added in, and some- 
times he varied the multiplying and dividing. 
Harvey Collins, who was of a studious turn, puzzled 
over it a long time, and at last he found it out; 
but he did not tell the secret. 
He contented himself with 
giving out a number to Jack 
and telling his result. To 
the rest it was quite miracu- 
lous, and Riley turned green 
with jealousy when he found 
the girls and boys refusing to 
listen to his jokes, but gath- 
ering about Jack to test his 
ability to "guess the answer," as they phrased it. 
Riley said he knew how it w;is done, and he was 
even foolish enough to try to do it, by watching 
the slate-pencil, or by sheer guessing, but this only 
brought him into ridicule. 

" Try me once," said the little C. C. C. W. M. 
de L. Risdale, and Jack let Columbus set down a 
figure and carry it through the various processes 
until he told him the result. Lummy grew excited, 
pushed his thin hands up into his hair, looked at 
his slate a minute, and then squeaked out: 

"Oh^let me see — yes — no — yes — Oh, I see ! 
Your answer is just half the amount added in, 
because you have — — " 

But here Jack placed lii?. hand over Columbus's 

" You can sec through a pine door. Lummy, but 
you must n't let out my secret," he said. 

But Jack had a boy's heart in him, and he longed 
for some more boy-like amusement. 

Chapter VL 


O.N'E morning, when Jack proposed to play a 
game of ball with the boys, Riley and Pewec 
came up and entered the game, and objected. 

" It is n't interesting to play with greenhorns," 
said Will. " If J.ick plays, little Christopher 
Columbus ,-\ndsoforth will want to play, too; and 
then there '11 be two babies to teach. I can't be 
always helping babies. Let Jack play two-hole 
cat or Anthony-over with the little fellows." To 
which answer Pewee assented, of course. 

* Copyright, 1881, by Edward Eggleston. .\U rights reserved. 




That day at noon Riley came to Jack, with a most 
gentle tone and winning manner, and whiningly 
begged Jack to show him how to divide 770 by 14. 
' " It is n't interesting to show greenhorns," said 
Jack, mimicking Riley's tone on the playground 
that morning. " If I show you, Pewee Rose will 
want me to show him ; then there '11 be two babies 
to teach. I can't be always helping babies. Go 
and play two-hole cat with the First-Reader boys." 

That afternoon, Mr. Ball had the satisfaction of 
using his new beech switches on both Riley and 
Pewee, though indeed Pewee did not deserve to be 
punished for not getting his lesson. He did not 
make his own cannon-ball head — it was Nature's 
doing that his head, like a goat's, was made for 
butting and not for thinking. 

But if he had to take whippings from the master 
and his father, he made it a rule to get satisfaction 
out of somebody else. If Jack had helped him he 
would n't have missed. If he had not missed his 
lesson badly, Mr. Ball would not have whipped 
him. It would be inconvenient to whip Mr. Ball 
in return, but Jack would be easy to manage, and 
as somebody must be whipped, it fell to Jack's lot 
to take it. 

King Pewee did not fall upon his victim at the 
school-house door — this would have insured him 
another beating from the master. Nor did he 
attack Jack while Bob Holliday was with him. Bob 
was big and strong — a great fellow of sixteen. 
But after Jack had passed the gate of Bob's house, 
and was walking on toward home alone, Pewee 
came out from behind an alley fence, accompanied 
by Ben Berry and Will Riley. 

" I 'm going to settle with you now," said King 
Pewee, sidling up to Jack like an angry bull-dog. 

It was not a bright prospect for Jack, and he cast 
about him for a chance to escape a brutal encounter 
with such a bully, and yet avoid actually running 

"Well," said Jack, "if I must fight, I must. 
But I suppose you wont let Riley and Berry help 

"No, I'll fight fair." And Pewee threw off 
his coat, while Jack did the same. 

" You '11 quit when 1 say ' enough,' wont you? " 
said Jack. 

"Yes, I 'U fight fair, and hold up when you 've 
got enough." 

" Well, then, for that matter, I 've got enough 
now. I '11 take the will for the deed, and just say 
'enough' before you begin," and he turned to 
pick up his coat. 

"No, you don't get off that way," said Pewee. 
" You 've got to stand up and see who is the best 
man, or I '11 kick you all the way home." 

" Did n't you ever hear about Davy Crockett's 

'coon?" said Jack. "When the 'coon saw him 
taking aim, it said : ' Is that you, Crockett ? Well, 
don't fire — I '11 come down anyway. I know you 
'11 hit anything you shoot at.' Now, I 'm that 
'coon. If it was anybody but you, I 'd fight. But 
as it 's you, Pewee, I might just as well come down 
before you begin." 

Pewee was flattered by this way of putting the 
question. Had he been alone, Jack would have 
escaped. But Will Riley, remembering all he had 
endured from Jack's retorts, said : 

"Oh, give it to him, Pewee; he 's always mak- 
ing trouble." 

At which Pewee squared himself off, doubled up 
his fists, and came at the slenderer Jack. The lat- 
ter prepared to meet him, but, after all, it was hard 
for Pewee to beat so good-humored a fellow as 
Jack. The king's heart failed him, and suddenly 
he backed off, saying : 

"If you '11 agree to help Riley and me out with 
our lessons hereafter, I '11 let you off If you don't, 
I '11 thrash you within an inch of your life." And 
Pewee stood ready to begin. 

Jack wanted to escape the merciless beating that 
Pewee had in store for him. But he was high- 
spirited, and it was quite impossible for him to sub- 
mit under a threat. So he answered : 

" If you and Riley will treat me as you ought to, 
I '11 help you when you ask me, as I always have. 
But even if you pound me into jelly I wont agree to 
help you, unless you treat me right. I wont be 
bullied into helping you." 

" Give it to him, Pewee," said Ben Berry; "he's 
too sassy." 

Pewee was a rather good-natured dog — he had 
to be set on. He now began to strike at Jack. 
Whether he was to be killed or not. Jack did not 
know, but he was resolved not to submit to the 
bully. Yet he could not do much at defense 
against Pewee's hard fists. However, Jack was 
active and had long limbs; he soon saw that he 
must do something more than stand up to be 
beaten. So, when King Pewee, fighting in the 
irregular Western fashion, and hoping to get a 
decided advantage at once, rushed upon Jack and 
pulled his head forward. Jack stooped lower than 
his enemy expected, and, thrusting his head between 
Pewee's knees, shoved his legs from under him, 
and by using all his strength threw Pewee over his 
own back, so that the king's nose and eyes fell into 
the dust of the village street. 

"I '11 "pay you for that," growled Pewee, as he 
recovered himself, now thoroughly infuriated ; and 
with a single blow he sent Jack flat on his back, 
and then proceeded to pound him. Jack could do 
nothing now but shelter his eyes from Pewee's blows. 

Joanna Mcrwin had seen the beginning of the 


battle from the window of her father's house, and 
feeling sure that Jack would be killed, she had run 
swiftly down the garden walk to the back gate, 
through which she slipped into the alley ; and then 
she hurried on, as fast as her feet would carry her, 
to the blacksmith-shop of Pewee Rose's father. 

" Oh, please, Mr. Rose, come quick! Pewee 's 
just killing a boy in the street." 

" V'itin' ag'in," said Mr. Rose, who was a Penn- 
sylvanian from the limestone country, and spoke 
English with difficulty. "He ccs a leetlc ruffien, 
dat poy. I '11 see apout him right avay a'ready, 
may be." 

And without waiting to put off his leathern 
apron, he walked briskly in the direction indicated 
by Joanna. Pewee was hammering Jack without 
pity, when suddenly he was caught by the collar 
and lifted sharply to his feet. 

"Wot you doin' down dare in tie dirt wunst 
a'ready ? Hey ? " said Mr. Rose, as he shook his 
son with the full force of his right arm, and cufted 
him with his left hand. " Did n't 1 dclls you I 'd 
gill you some day if you did ii't guit vitin' mit oder 
poys, a'ready ? " 

" He commenced it," whimpered Pewee. 

" You dclls a pig lie a'ready, I beleefs, Peter, 
and 1 '11 whip you fur lyin' besides .wunst more. 
Fellers like him" pointing to Jack, who was 
brushing the dust off his clothes, — " fellers like 
him don't gommcncc on such a poy as you. You 
're such anodcr viter I never seed." And he shook 
Pewee savagely. 

" I wont do it no more," begged Pewee — " 'pon 
my word and honor 1 wont." 

" Oh, you don't gits off dat away no more, 
a'ready. You know what 1 '11 giff you when I git 
you home, you leedle ruffien. I shows you how to 
vitc, a'ready." 

And the king disappeared down the street, beg- 
ging like a spaniel, and vowing that he " would 
n't do it no more." But he got a severe whipping, 
1 fear; — it is doubtful if such beatings ever do any 
good. The next morning Jack appeared at school 
with a black eye, and Pewee had some scratches, 
so the master whipped them both for fighting. 

ClI.VPTKR V'll. 

Pf.wee did not renew the quarrel with Jack — 
perhaps from fear of the rawhide that hung in the 
blacksmitli's shop, or of the master's ox-gad, or of 
Bob Holliday's fists, or perhaps from a hope of 
conciliating Jack and getting occasional help in his 
lessons. Jack was still excluded from the favorite 
game of "bull-pen," or, as it is better named, 

"buffalo." I am not sure that he would have 
been refused had he asked for admission, but he did 
not want to risk another refusal. He planned a 
less direct way of getting into the game. He asked 
his mother for a worn-out stocking, and he pro- 
cured an old boot-top. He raveled the stocking, 
winding the yarn into a ball of medium hardness. 
Then he cut from the boot-top a square of leather 
large enough for his purpose. This he laid on the , 
kitchen table, and proceeded to mark off and cut it 
into the shape of an orange-peel that has been 
quartered off the orange. But Jack left the four 
quarters joined together at the middle. This 
leather he put to 5oak over night. The next morn- 
ing, bright and early, with a big needle and some 
strong thread he sewed it around his yarn-ball, 
stretching the wet leather to its utmost, so that 
when it should contract the ball should be firm and 
hard, and th'j leather well molded to it. .Such a 
ball is far belter for all play in which the player is 
to be hit than are those sold in the stores nowa- 
days. 1 have descri'oed the manufacture of the 
old-fashioned home-made ball, because there are 
some boys, especially in the towns, « ho have lost 
the art of making yarn balls. 

When Jack had finished his ball, he let it dry, 
while he ate his breakfast and did his chores. 
Then he sallied out and found Bob Holliday, and 
showed liim the result of his work. I!ob squeezed it, 
"hefted" it, bounced it against a wall, tossed it high 
in the air, caught it, and then bounced it on the 
ground. Having thus " put it through its paces," 
he pronounced it an excellent ball, — "a good deal 
better than Ben Berry's ball. But what are you 
going to do with it?" he asked. " Play Anthony- 
over? The little boys can play that." 

I suppose there are boys in these days who do 
not know what "Anthony-over" is. How, indeed, 
can anybody play Anthony-over in a crowded city? 

The old one-story village school-houses stood 
generally in an open green. The boys divided into 
two parties, the one going on one side, and the 
other on the opposite side of the school-house. Tlie 
party that had the ball would shout, ".Anthony!" 
The others responded, " Over ! " To this, answer 
was made from the first party, " Over she comes ! " 
and the ball was immediately thrown over the 
school-house. If any of the second party caught it, 
they rushed, pell-mell, around both ends of the 
school-house to the other side, and that one of 
them who held the ball essayed to hit some one of 
the opposite party before they could exchange sides. 
If a boy was hit by the ball thus thrown he was 
counted .as captured to the opposite party, and he 
gave all his efforts to beat his old allies. So the 
game went on, until all the players of one side 
were captured b\' the others. 




" I 'm not going to play Anthony-over," said 
Jack. " I 'm going to show King Pewee a new 

" You can't get up a. game of buffalo on your 
own hook." 

" No, I don't mean that. I 'm going to show 
the boys how to play hat-ball — a game they used to 
play on the Wildcat." 

" I see your point. You are going to make 
Pewee ask you to let him in," said Bob, and the 
two boys set out for school together. Jack explain- 

body-Else might throw from where the ball lay, or 
from the hats, at the rest, and so on, until some 
one missed. The one who missed took up his hat 
and left the play, and the boy who picked up the 
ball proceeded to drop it into a hat, and the game 
went on until all but one were put out. 

Hat-ball is so simple that any number can 
play at it, and Jack's friends found it so full of 
boisterous fun, that every new-comer wished to set 
down his hat. And thus, by the time Pewee and 
Riley arrived, half the larger boys in the school 


ing the game to Bob. They found one or two boys 
already there, and when Jack showed his new ball 
and proposed a new game, they fell in with it. 

The boys stood their hats in a row on the 
grass. The one with the ball stood over the row 
of hats, and swung his hand to and fro above them, 
while the boys stood by him, prepared to run as 
soon as the ball should drop into a hat. The boy 
who held the ball, after one or two false motions, 

— now toward this hat, and now toward that one, 

— would drop the ball into Somebody's hat. Some- 
body would rush to his hat, seize the ball, and 
throw it at one of the other boys who were fleeing 
in all directions. If he hit Somebody-Else, Some- 

were in the game, and there were not enough left 
to make a good game of buffalo. 

At noon, the new game drew the attention of the 
boys again, and Riley and Pewee tried in vain to 
coax them away. 

" Oh, I say, come on, fellows ! " Riley would say. 
" Come — let 's play something worth playing." 

But the boys staid by the new game and the 
new ball. Neither Riley, nor Pewee, nor Ben Berry 
liked to ask to be let into the game, after what had 
passed. Not one of them had spoken to Jack since 
the battle between him and Pewee, and they did n't 
care to play with Jack's ball in a game of his starting. 

Once the other boys had broken away from 



Pewee's domination, they were pleased to feel 
themselves free. As for Pevvee and his friends, 
they climbed up on a fence, and sat like three 
crows watching the play of the others. After 
awhile they got down in disgust, and went off, not 
knowing just what to do. When once they were 
out of sight, Jack winked at Hob, who said : 

" I say, boys, wc can pla\- hat-l^all at recess when 
there is n't time for buffalo. Let 's have a game of 
buffalo now, before school takes up." 

It was done in a minute. Bob Holliday and 
Tom Taylor "chose up sides," the bases were all 
read)-, and by the time Pcwee and his aids-de- 
camp had walked disconsolately to the pond and 
back, the boys were engaged in a good game of 
buffalo, or, as they called it in that day, "bull-pen." 

Perhaps I ought to say something about the 
principles of a game so little known over the 
country at large. I have never seen it played any- 
where but in a narrow bit of country on the Ohio 
River, and yet there is no merrier game played with 
a ball. 

The ball must not be too hard. There should 
be four or more corners. The space inside is called 
the pen, and the party winning the last game al- 
ways has the corners. The ball is tossed from one 
corner to another, and when it has gone 'around 
once, any boy on a corner may, immediately after 
catching the ball thrown to him from any of the 
four corners, throw it at any one in the pen. lie 
must throw while "the ball is hot," — that is, in- 
stantly on catching it. If he fails to hit anybody 
on the other side, he goes out. If he hits, his side 
leave the corners and run as they please, for the 
boy who has been hit may throw from where the 
ball fell, or from any comer, at any one of the 
side holding the corners. If one of them is hit, he 
has the same privilege ; but now the men in the 
pen are allowed to scatter also. Whoever misses is 
"out," and the play is resumed from the corners 
until all of one side are out. When but two are 
left on the corners the ball is smuggled, — that is, 
one hides the ball in his bosom, and the other pre- 
tends that he has it also. The boys in the ring do 
not know which has it, and the two " run the cor- 
ners," throwing from any corner. If but one is left 
on the corners, he is allowed also to run from cor- 
ner to corner. 

It happened that Jack's side lost on the toss-up 
for corners, and he got into the ring, where his 
play showed better than it would have done on the 
corners. As Jack was the greenhorn and the last 
chosen on his side, the players on the corners 
expected to make light work of him ; but he was an 
adroit dodger, and he put out three of the men on 
the corners by his unexpected way of evading a 
ball. Everybody who has ever played this fine old 

game knows that expertness in dodging is worth 
quite as much as skill in throwing. Pewee was 
a famous hand with a ball, Riky could dodge 
well, Ben Berry had a happy knack of dropping 
flat upon the ground and letting a ball pass over 
him. Bob Holliday could run well in a counter 
charge ; but nothing could be more effective than 
Jack Dudley's quiet way of stepping forward or 
backward, bending his lithe body or spreading his 
legs to let the ball pass, according to the course 
which it look from the player's hand. 

King Pewee and company came back in time to 
see Jack dodge three balls thrown point-blank at 
him from a distance of fifteen feet. It was like 
witchcraft — he seemed to be charmed. Every 
dodge was greeted with a shout, and when once he 
luckily caught the ball thrown at him, and thus put 
out the thrower, there was no end of admiration 
of his playing. It was now evident to all that Jack 
could no longer be excluded from the game, and 
that, next to Pewee himself, he was already the 
best player on the ground. 

At recess that afternoon, Pewee set his hat 
down in the hat-ball row, and as Jack did not 
object, Riley and Ben Berry did the same. The 
next day Pewee chose Jack first in buffalo, and the 
game was well played. 

CllAI'I'I'.R Vlll. 


If Jack had not about tliis time undertaken the 
defense of the little boy in the Fourth Reader, whose 
name was large enough to cover the principal 
features of the history of the New World, he might 
have had peace, for Jack was no longer one of the 
newest scholars, his courage was respected by 
Pewee, and he kept poor Riley in continual fear of 
his ridicule — making him smart every day. But, 
just when he might have had a little peace and 
happiness, he became the defender of Christopher 
Columbus George Washington Marquis dc la Fay- 
ette Risdale — little " Andsofortli," as Riley and 
the other boys had nicknamed him. 

Theetrange, pinched little body of the boy, his 
eccentric ways, his quickness in learning, and 
his infantile simplicity had all conspired to win 
the affection of Jack, so that he would have pro- 
tected him even without the solicitation of Susan 
Lanham. But since Susan had been Jack's own 
first and fast friend, he felt in honor bound to 
run all risks in the case of her strange little cousin. 

I think that Columbus's child-like ways might 
have protected him even from Riley and his set, if it 
had not been that he was related to Susan Lanham, 
and under her protection. It was the only chance 




for Riley to revenge himself on Susan. She was 
more than a match for him in wit, and she was not 
a proper subject for Pcwee's fists. So with that 
heartlessness which belongs to the school-boy bully, 
he resolved to torment the helpless fellow in re- 
venge for Susan's sarcasms. 

One morning, smarting under some recent taunt 
of Susan's, Riley caught little Columbus almost 
alone in the school-room. Here was a boy who 
certainly would not be likely to strike back again. 
His bamboo legs, his spindling arms, his pale face, 
his contracted chest, all gave the coward a perfect 
assurance of safety. So, with a rude pretence at 
play, laughing all the time, he caught the lad by 
the throat, and in spite of his weird dignity and 
pleading gentleness, shoved him back against the 
wall behind the master's empty chair. Holding 
him here a minute in suspense, he began slapping 
him, first on this side of the face and then on that. 
The pale cheeks burned red with pain and fright, 
but Columbus did not cry out, though the con- 
stantly increasing sharpness of the blows, and the 
sense of weakness, degradation, and terror, stung 
him severely. Riley thought it funny. Like a cat 
playing with a condemned mouse, the cruel fellow 
actually enjoyed finding one person weak enough 
to be afraid of him. 

Columbus twisted about in a vain endeavor to 
escape from Riley's clutches, getting only a sharper 
cufif for his pains. Ben Berry, arriving presently, 
enjoyed the sport, while some of the smaller bo\s 
and girls, coming in, looked on the scene of torture 
in helpless pity. And ever, as more and more of 
the scholars gathered, Columbus felt more and 
more mortified ; the tears were in his great sad 
eyes, but he made no sound of crying or complaint. 

Jack Dudley came in at last, and marched 
straight up to Riley, who let go his hold and 
backed off. "You mean, cowardly, pitiful villain ! " 
broke out Jack, advancing on him. 

" I did n't do anything to you," whined Riley, 
backing into a corner. 

" No, but I mean to do something to you. If 
there 's an inch of man in you, come right on and 
fight with me. You dare n't do it." 

" I don't want any quarrel with you." 

" No, you quarrel with babies." 

Here all the boys and girls jeered. 
■ "You 're too hard on a fellow. Jack," whined 
the scared Riley, slipping out of the corner and 
continuing to back down the school-room, while 
Jack kept slowly following him. 

"You 're a great deal bigger than 1 am," said 
Jack. " Why don't you try to corner me? Oh, I 
could just beat the breath out of you, you great, 
big, good for nothing " 

Here Riley pulled the west door open, and Jack, 

at the same moment, struck him. Riley half 
dropped, half fell, through the door-way, scared 
so badly that 'ne went sprawling on the ground. 

The boys shouted " coward " and " baby" after 
him as he sneaked off, but Jack went back to com- 
fort Columbus and to get control of his temper. 
For it is not wise, as Jack soon reflected, even in a 
good cause to lose your self-control. 

" It was good of you to interfere," said Susan, 
when she had come in and learned all about it. 

" 1 should have been a brute if 1 had n't," said 
Jack, pleased none the less with her praise. " But 
it does n't take any courage to back Riley out of a 
school-house. One could get more fight out of a 
yearling calf. I suppose I 've got to take a beating 
from Pewee, though." 

" Go and see him about it, before Rifey sees 
him," suggested Susan. And Jack saw the pru- 
dence of this course. As he left the school-house at 
a rapid pace, Ben Berry told Riley, who was skulk- 
ing behind a fence, that Jack was afraid of Pewee. 

" Pewee," said Jack, when he met him starting 
to school, after having done his "chores," includ- 
ing the milking of his cow, — " Pewee, I want to 
say something to you." 

Jack's tone and manner flattered Pewee. One 
thing that keeps a rowdy a rowdy is the thought 
that better people despise him. Pewee felt in his 
heart that Jack had a contempt for him, and this 
it was that made him hate Jack in turn. But now 
that the latter sought him in a friendly way, he 
felt himself lifted up into a dignity hitherto un- 
known to him. " What is it ?" 

" You are a kind of king among the boys," said 
Jack. Pewee grew an inch taller. 

" They are all afraid of you. Now, why don't 
you make us fellows behave .' You ought to pro- 
tect the little boys from fellows that impose on 
them. Then you 'd be a king worth the having. 
All the boys and girls would like you." 

" I s'pose may be that 's so," said the king. 

" There 's poor little Columbus Risdale '' 

" I don't like him," said Pewee. 

"You mean you don't like Susan. She is a 
little sharp with her tongue. But you would n't 
fight with a baby — it is n't like you." 

" No, sir-ee," said Pewee. 

" You 'd rather take a big boy than a little one. 
Now, you ought to make Riley let Lummy alone." 

" I '11 do that," said Pewee. " Riley 's about a 
million times bigger than Lum." « 

" 1 went to the school-house this morning," con- 
tinued Jack, " and I found Riley choking and beat- 
ing him. And I thought I 'd just speak to you, 
and see if you can't make him stop it." 

" I '11 do that," said Pewee, walking along with 
great dignity. 

1 882.) 



When Ben Berry and Riley saw Pewee coming 
in company with Jack, they were amazed and hung 
their heads, afraid to say anything even to each 
other. Jack and Pewee walked straight up to the 
fence-corner in which they stood. 

" I thought I 'd see what King Pewee would say 
about your fighting with babies, Riley," said Jack. 

" I want you fellows to understand," said Pewee, 
" that I 'm not going to have that little Lum Ris- 
dalc hurt. If you want to fight, why don't you 
fight somebody your own size? I don't fight babies 
myself," and here Pewee drew himself up, ''and I 
don't stand by any boy that does." 

Poor Riley felt the last support drop from under 

him. Pewee had deserted him, and he was now an 
orphan, unprotected in an unfriendly world ! 

Jack knew that the truce with so vain a fellow as 
Pewee could not last long, but it served its pur- 
pose for the time. And when, after school, Susan 
Lanham took pains to go and thank Pewee for 
standing up for Columbus, Pewee felt himself 
every inch a king, and for the time he was — if 
not a "reformed prize-fighter," such as one hears 
of sometimes, at least an improved boy. The 
trouble with vain people like Pewee is, that they 
have no stability. They bend the way the wind 
blows, and for the most part the wind blows from 
the wrong quarter. 

(I'o be continmd. ) 






(A Modt:r7i Greek Folk-story.) 

Hon. Jeremiah Curtin. 

"■ HERE 

«as once 
a country- 
man nam- 
ed Pentek- 
limas, and 
one day he 
went forth 
boldly to 
seek his 
I fortune. 
After he 
had jour- 
neyed for 
a length of 
time, he 
a pea that 
lay in the 
road, and 
he picked 

it up. He was about to throw it away, when it 
occurred to him that he had gone out to seek his 
fortune, and that since he had found the pea, this 
must be his fortune. While considering how this 
might be, he said to himself: 

" If I put this pea in the ground, I shall have 
a hundred peas next year ; and if I sow them 1 
shall have ten thousand the year after ; then I shall 
sow those, and in the fourth year 1 shall have no end 
of peas. My fortune is sure ; 1 will take the pea." 

He tied it safely in his handkerchief, and kept 
his thoughts fixed on it all the time, so that as 
often as he began any transaction he always stopped 
in the middle, and took out his handkerchief to see 
if he still had the pea. Then he would take a pen 
and calculate how many peas he should harvest one 
year, and how many the next, and so on ; and 
when he had finished the reckoning he would say : 
" Oh, I 've got a sure thing of it ! " 
After he had passed some time in this manner, 
he rose up, went to the sea-shore, and made known 
that he wished to hire two hundred ships. 

When the people asked him what he wanted so 
many ships for, he answered, that he wished to put 
his property on board. 

All were astonished at this reply, and thought at 
first that he was making sport of them. But as 
he kept on inquiring for ships, they demanded to 
know exactly how many he needed. Then he took 

out the pea, made his calculations anew, and con- 
cluded a contract with the seamen. 

The ship-owners hastened to the king, and told 
-him how a man had come to the harbor, who was 
so rich that he needed two hundred ships to carry 
his goods. When the king heard this, he mar- 
veled greatly, and sent for the man, so as to speak 
with him in person. 

Penteklimas was quite stately in appearance, and 
when starting on his journey he had bought such 
fine clothes that now he had only two hundred 
piasters left ; but he took no trouble on that 
account, for had n't he the pea, from which his 
fortune was to come ? He appeared, therefore, in 
good spirits before the king, who asked him where 
he kept his property. Penteklimas answered : 

" I keep it in a safe place, and need two hun- 
dred ships to bring it here." 

The king then thought, " That 's the husband 
for my daughter ; " and asked him if he would n't 
marry his daughter. 

When Penteklimas heard this, he grew very 
thoughtful, and said to himself: 

' 1 am, in truth, not yet perfectly sure of my 
fortune, for if I now say no, the king will not let 
me have the ships." 

When the king pressed him for an answer, Pen- 
teklimas said, at length : 

" 1 will go first and get my property ; and then 
we can have the wedding." 

Penteklimas's thoughtfulness in thus replying to 
such a proposition roused the ardor of the king, 
who said ; 

"If you must make the journey first, let the 
betrothal at least take place before you go, and we 
can have the wedding when you come back." 

Penteklimas was satisfied with this. 

While they were speaking, evening came on. 
The king did not wish to let him depart, but had 
him spend the night in the palace. In order to 
find out whether his guest was used to good living, 
the king gave a secret command to prepare for 
him a bed with torn sheets and a ragged quilt. A 
ser\'ant was charged to watch him through the 
night, and to see if he would sleep, — "for if he 
sleeps," thought the king, "he is a poor fellow; 
but if he does n't sleep, then he is well brought up, 
and can not rest on rags." 

Next morning the servant told the king that 
Penteklimas had -been very restless all night, and 




had n't closed an eye. The real cause of his unrest 
had been that he feared to lose his pea amongst the 
rags. He could not sleep, and was continually put- 
ting his hand on the place where he had hidden 
the pea, so as to make sure it was there. 

The following night the king ordered as soft and 
beautiful a bed as possible to be given him. In 
this Penteklimas slept splendidly, because he had 
no fear of losing the pea. When the king heard 
of his guest's quiet slumbering, he was convinced 
that he had found the right husband for his daugh- 
ter, and so he hastened the betrothal. On the 
evening of the ceremony, the bride came to Pentek- 
limas, but he had little attention to bestow on her, 
for his whole mind was directed to the pea, and the 
harvests he expected from it. He soon left her 
and went to his room, and no sooner had he fallen 

urged on by the king, he decided to put to sea with 
two hundred ships. While on the voyage, he 
betook himself to calculations once more, when, of 
a sudden, it became clear to him, as if bandages 
had fallen from his eyes, how silly his conduct 
had been, for he had not yet obtained even a piece 
of ground in which to plant his pea, while now he 
was sailing on with two hundred ships to carry 
back a harvest which could only come after many 
years! "I am mad," said he to himself; "but 
what shall I do now that 1 have deceived the king 
and so many people ?" 

After much meditation, he hit upon a prcte.vt by 
which he could get away from the ships. He told 
the captains, when they arrived at the first favor- 
able coast, " Put me on land here, and wait until I 
call; for 1 must be alone to tind my treasures." 





asleep, than he dreamt that the pea was lost. He 
jumped up, and snatched after it so fiercely that 
it fell to the floor. Then he began to cry and sob : 
" Oh, misery, misery ! where is my fortune?" until 
he found the pea again. And the servant, not 
understanding this, wondered not a little at his 
outcry and strange behavior. 

So he continued for a short time, becoming more 
and more absorbed in his calculations, until at last, 

When he reached the shore, he went into a forest 
and hid himself there, not wishing to come out 
until the captains, weary of waiting, should sail 

They waited for him a long time in vain, and as 
he did not come, they determined to look for him. 
They searched the whole forest through, and dis- 
covered there a cavern all filled with gold pieces, 
which was guarded by a negro with a drawn sword- 




As the negro resisted, the sailors in their haste 
and greed at once slew him. Just then, Pentekli- 
mas appeared suddenly from a neighboring thicket. 
When he saw the sailors, he was both surprised and 
alarmed. But they cried out to him, "Come 
here — come this way — we have found your 
treasures ! " 

When he heard this, Penteklimas could not be- 
lieve his ears at first ; but he took courage, and 
went with them into the cavern to look at the 

heaps of gold. Then he heaved a great sigh, and 
ordered the sailors to lade the two hundred ships 
with the treasures from the cave. After this was 
done, they all sailed home. 

The king received his son-in-law in great 
magnificence, with torches and lanterns; and 
Penteklimas celebrated his wedding with the prin- 
cess, and 
became a i 



Bv DoR.A. Read Goodale. 

I WOULD sing a lullaby, — 
Not as mother robins do, 
Answering the what and why 
Of the babies cradled high, — 
I will tell you by and by, 
Now I only sing for you. 

I would sing a lullaby, — 

Not as mother pussies do, 
When on chilly nights they lie, 
With their furry babies by. 
Answering the broken cry 

With a little plaintive "mew!' 

1 would sing a lullaby. 

Just as other mothers do 
When the verses that they. try 
Break in jarring melody, — 
Sing? I know not what or why, 
I will simply sing for you ! 






It is doubtful whether any wTiter of books can 
be to the present generation of young people just 
what Dr. Josiah Gilbert Holland was to the last 
generation. This is not because there arc no good 
writers nowadays ; it is partly because there are so 
many of them. Nor is it because the writers now 
living do not know how to entertain young people; 
scores of them are masters of that art. But a great 
inheritance of power and aflfection w^s waiting for 
somebody when Dr. Holland came, and he was the 
man called by Providence to enter in and take 

For children, distinctively, Dr. Holland wrote but 
little. I do not think that he had any remarkable 
skill in pleasing children. His mission was not to 
the little folks. But to the older boys and girls. 
and the younger men and women, he had some- 
thing to say, and he contrived to say it in a wa)- 
that gained their attention, and inspired their con- 

Up to the time when " Titcomb's Letters to 
Young People " appeared, the young folk had heard 
very little talk about conduct that was not dismal 
and repelling. Lectures and letters to young men 
and women were apt to be full of cant and conde- 
scension — two very offensive things. 1 was a boy 
in those days, and I know all about it. Do I not 
remember the volumes of Advice to Young Men 
that were bestowed on me, and what I did with 
them ? Do I not recall the kind of speeches that 
used to be made to us, in school and in Sunday- 
school, and how far away they seemed to be from 
the thought and life of growing boys and girls? 
There was often a great effort on the part of the 
speakers to come down to us, and this was what 
disgusted us most. When we saw some learned 
and lordly instructor ride in on a very high horse, 
and then with a wave of the hand proceed to come 
down a long ladder of condescension backward, to 
our level, we generally took to our heels, mentally 
if not literally. 

So, when Timothy Titcomb's "Letters" came, 
they were a genuine surprise to many of us. No- 
body had ever talked to us in this way before. He 
did not begin by addressing us as his dear young 
friends, nor by telling us how deeply interested he 
was in the moral and spiritual and eternal welfare 
of every one of us, nor by assuring us that Youth 
was the Morn of Life ; he did not talk through his 
nose at all ; he neither patronized nor condescended ; 
he spoke to us in a plain and jolly way ; he laughed 

at us, and laughed with us ; he hit us hard some- 
times, but he always struck fair ; he knew more 
than we did, but he felt no bigger ; he understood 
us through and through, and he liked us, and he 
wanted to help us, God bless him ! He was a new 
sort of man altogether. Wc took to him at once. 

I was in college when the Titcomb "Letters" 
were first printed in the Springfield Republican, 
and I remember well the enthusiasm with which 
the fellows hailed the words of this new teacher. 

It was not only because he talked in a fresh and 
unconventional way that wc liked him, l)ut also be- 
cause he could talk in such a pleasant fashion con- 
cerning the highest matters. He did not undertake 
to amuse us; if he had, we might have ai)plauded 
him more, but wc should not have loved him so well. 
For the truth is that young people generally, even 
in their most exuberant days, have a genuine care 
for the deep things of character. They believe, 
quite as truly as their elders do, that wise saying 
of Matthew Arnold : "Conduct is three-fourths 
of life." To the appeal which summons them to 
purity and courage, and honor and faith, if it be 
wisely spoken, they readily respond. This was 
true of young people in my day, 1 know ; and 1 
trust that it is not less true of young people in these 
days. We felt ourselves honored when one who 
understood us, and did not try to set himself high 
above us, offered to talk with us about these great 
matters of conduct. Wc liked him because he 
believed in us enough to take it for granted that we 
should enjoy such talk. And there are men and 
women not a few in this land, who are now- up in 
the forties and the fifties, who look back with thank- 
fulness to Ijie wholesome impulse given to their 
thoughts by these letters of Timothy Titcomb. 

1 have just been reading them over again. Some- 
body borrowed my copy fifteen or twenty years 
ago, and I have not seen it since. But it all seems 
very fresh and familiar. 1 have marked a few pas- 
sages that 1 had remembered a little too well, be- 
cause 1 had forgotten that I remembered them. I 
had thought that the thought was my own, and 
had expressed it elsewhere, in different words, of 
course, but precisely the same idea. It had become 
so much a part of me that I did not know that any- 
body ever gave it to me. 

1 do not wonder now, when I read these letters 
over, that they w-ere so popular and so useful in the 
da)- when they were written. They ought to have 
been. They ought to l)c in this day. We have 




had many good books for young people since these 
were written, — one noble book within a year — Mr. 
Hunger's " On the Threshold" ; but without mak- 
ing any comparisons, the exceptional success of the 
Titcomb " Letters" is not mysterious. The home- 
liness of the style, the broad but pure and genial 
humor, the oft-hand directness and point of the 
counsels, entitle them to the popularity they won. 
I came back to them expecting that a maturer 
judgment might find some things that were crude 
and extravagant ; but this is one of the books the 
youthful estimate of which has not needed much 
•revision. And it is not out of date. Such home- 
ly counsels are never antiquated. The questions 
of behavior confronting young people in these 
times are the same questions that confronted their 
fathers and mothers ; and there is as much help for 
our boys and girls in this little volume as there was 
for us. I am glad that a new and beautiful edition 
of it is just appearing, and I trust that the older 
boys and girls among the readers of St. Nicholas 
will make the acquaintance of this sunny and sensi- 
ble writer, who to their fathers and mothers was 
"guide, philosopher, and friend." 

Others of Dr. Holland's books of essays are good 
books for young people, though none of them, 
excepting the Titcomb " Letters," is especially in- 
tended for the young. And although there is much 
of wise philosophy and earnest practical talk in 
''Gold Foil" and " Lessons in Life" and "Letters 
to the Joneses, " yet the Titcomb ' ' Letters " remains, 
even in a literary point of view, the best of his 
books of essays. This is a point, I confess, on 
which my judgment has undergone revision. I 
used to think "Gold Foil" finer than the "Let- 
ters," but it does not seem so now. Or perhaps I 
should say it is finer, and for that reason it is not 
so good writing. The "Letters" were struck off 
impromptu ; the suggestion of the series came from 
Mr. Bowles, Dr. Holland's associate on the Jic- 
publican, and the Doctor sat down at once and 
wrote the first letter, printing it the same week. 
They appeared regularly, after that, in the Satur- 
day issues of a daily newspaper ; they were thrown 
off rapidly, without thought of their preservation in 
book form, and in the midst of the strenuous labors 
of a busy journalist ; their style is therefore collo- 
quial, unambitious, straightforward. Dr. Holland 
has written no better prose than this little volume 
contains. When "Gold Foil" was written, he had 
begun to be an author of fame, and he naturally 
wanted to maintain his reputation. Because he 
tried a little harder to write finely, he did not suc- 
ceed in writing quite as well. 

This criticism refers, however, only to the style, 
and it applies to "Lessons in Life" much less 
forcibly than to " Gold Foil." By the time the 

"Lessons in Life" were written, the Doctor had 
pretty well passed -the anxieties of early authorship ; 
his standing was assured : he therefore was at home 
with himself again, and he wrote simply and 
directly, as his nature prompted him. But you 
will find in all these books of essays much that the 
sober and right-hearted among you will greatly 
enjoy. As students of literature, you read Bacon's 
Essays, of course, and some of Addison's and 
Swift's, and Johnson's, and Montaigne's, but let me 
say to you that, though the turf has not yet begun 
to grow above the grave of Dr. Holland, his books 
of essays are quite as well worth your reading as 
those of these elder worthies. Not, perhaps, as 
models of literary style, — into that question we 
need not go, — but as wholesome moral tonics. The 
>oung man or woman who wants to know how to 
think justly, how to choose wisely, how to act a 
worthy part in life, — and there are many such, 1 
trust, among those who will read these words, — 
will find in the essays of Dr. Holland a kind of 
nutriment for the better life that none of the classic 
essays will furnish. Not a man of all those wor- 
thies I have named had the genius for morality that 
Dr. Holland had. 

Dr. Holland's poetry is less likely than his prose 
to attract young people. In " Bitter-sweet " they 
will find much to enjoy ; and many of his minor 
pieces are musical and sweet. " Daniel Gray," 
and " The Heart of the War," and " Gradatim " 
are for them as much as for their elders ; but the 
poets of the young are the poets of nature and of 
action, and these were not Dr. Holland's provinces. 
His novels are, however, excellent books for the 
)Oung. Every one of them is a novel with a pur- 
pose ; there is always some point to make, some 
wrong to right, some reform to push ; but the story- 
does not flag; he is not a novelist who often stops 
to preach ; the story itself preaches. I have known 
bright boys and girls, from fourteen to eighteen, 
who would read some of these stories through a 
dozen times ; and you never do that, you know, with 
stupid stories. If his poems are abstract and re- 
flective, his stories are full of life and action. The 
men and women in them are, for the most part, 
real people, and the pages throb with human in- 
terest. There is very little romance in Dr. Hol- 
land's stories ; in his poetry he sometimes touches 
upon the marvelous, but his prose keeps close to the 
facts of life, and he tells us few things that may not 
have happened. Indeed, we are very sure that a 
good many things of which he tells us did happen 
to him. 

I will not undertake to judge among his stories ; 
all of them, from " The Bay Path" to "Nicholas 
Minturn," are full of fresh pleasure for the young 
folks who have not read them. The most dramatic 




of them all, beyond a doubt, is "The Story of 
Sevenoaks"; but "Miss Gilbert's Career" and 
" Arthur Bonnicastle," and "Nicholas Minturn"are 
all good books for the young. And I think that 
the boys and girls who read these books will agree 
that Dr. Holland knew boys and girls ; that the 
experiences of his own boyhood were well remem- 
bered, and that he understood, therefore, how to 
put himself in the places of the young folks round 
about him, and to interpret life as it appears to 
them. In most of his stories he goes well back 
toward the youth of his principal characters: Ar- 
thur Blague, Fanny Gilbert, Arthur Bonnicastle, 
Henry Huhn, Millie Bradford, Jenny Coates, are 
known to us from tlieir boyhood and girlhood. In 
reading their histories we are brought into imme- 
diate contact with the world in which young people 
now live and move ; we share their duties and their 
cares, their aspirations and their perplexities, 
their enthusiasms and their resentments. Life, 
to the young people of these stories, is the same 
kind of life that we arc living; they make the same 
mistakes that we have made ; and when we see 
them going onward to victory and peace, we know 
that the way by which they went is the way by 
which we, too, must go. Certain it is that we shall 
never learn from these stories to be irreverent, nor 
undutiful, nor babyish ; that we shall get no encour- 
agement in waiting on luck, nor in taking short 
cuts to fortune. Industry, and manliness, and 
sturdy independence arc the lessons taught in every 
one of them. 

Of Dr. Holland's stories, " Arthur Bonnicastle" 
is the one in which young people will find most 
that concerns themselves. There is more religion 
in it than in any of the rest of them ; and I sus- 
pect that Dr. Holland has given us in Arthur's 
early religious struggles a bit of recollection. The 
experience through which the hero passes in the 
revival is one that could not well have been 
imagined. It reads like history. This peculiar 
experience is less common now than it was when 
Dr. Holland was a boy, because the theories now 
prevailing concerning religious life are more simple 
and intelligible than those of fifty years ago. Never- 
theless, the story of Arthur is one which the boys 
of our own time can understand, and it is full 
of instruction for them. The childhood of this 
shy, sensitive, imaginative boy recalls to many of 
them passages in their own lives that are not 
yet far enough off to be forgotten ; and the school 
life and college life of Arthur take them over 
familiar paths. 

It is well known, I suppose, that the original of 
the " Birds'-Nest," to which Arthur went, was the 

school called "The Gunnery," in Washington, 
Connecticut, named, by a doubtful pun, after its 
principal, and filmed for its original methods of 
discipline, and for the great emphasis placed in all 
its training upon the values of character. Mr. 
(lunn, who is no longer living, was a teacher after 
Dr. Holland's own heart, and what the Doctor says 
about this school conveys his own notion of the 
right relation between boys and their teachers. 
"Self-direction and self-government — these," he 
says, "were the most important of all the lessons 
learned at the "Birds'-Nest.' Our school was a lit- 
tle community brought together for common objects 
— the pursuit of useful learning, the acquisition of 
courteous manners, and the practice of those 
duties which relate to good citizenship. The only 
laws of the school were those which were planted 
in the conscience, reason, and sense of propriety 
of the pupils. * * * The boys were made to feel 
that the school was their own, and that they were 
responsible for its good order. Mr. Bird was only 
the biggest and best boy, and the accepted presi- 
dent of the establishment. The responsibility of 
the boys was not a thing of theory only : it was 
deeply realized in the conscience and conduct of 
the school. However careless or refractory a new 
boy might be, he soon learned that he had a whole 
school to deal with, and that he was not a match 
for the public opinion." 

The idea here ascribed to Mr. Bird of giving 
boys liberty and teaching them to use it, is central 
in Dr. Holland's philosophy of education. I have 
sometimes questioned whether he did not put this 
a little too strongly. Doubtless the lesson of the 
use of liberty is all-important, but the lesson of 
obedience is not less important, and one can not 
help thinking, as he looks around upon life and 
notes the failures that grow from self-conceit and 
willfulness, that the first thing for every boy and 
girl to learn is how to obey. There is much less 
danger now than when Dr. Holland was a boy of 
tyranny in school and family government, — less 
danger now of tyranny than of anarchy, perhaps ; 
and the virtue to emphasize just now is the soldierly 
virtue that dares to say, " 1 obey orders." Never- 
theless, Dr. Holland nowhere countenances any- 
thing like insubordination ; he only insists that 
boys and girls shall have a fair chance ; that they 
shall be trusted and put upon their honor ; and in 
this I am sure he will have them all on his side. 
But let them read "Arthur Bonnicastle," if they 
have not read it. I am not afraid that they will 
learn from that, nor from any other book that he 
ever wrote, any lessons but those of purity, and 
manliness, and honest faith. 





By Daniel C. Beard. 

The puppet-show is certainly an old institution ; 
and, for aught I know, the shadow pantomime may 
be equally ancient. But the puppet-show here to 
be described originated, so far as I am aware, 

within our family 
circle, having grad- 
ually evolved itself 
from a simple 
sheet of 


hung on the back of a chair, with a light placed 
on the seat of the chair behind the paper. 

The puppets (not the most graceful and artistic) 
originally were impaled upon broom-straws, and by 
this means their shadows were made to jump and 
dance around in the most lively manner, to the 
intense delight of a juvenile audience. As 
juveniles advanced in years and knowledge, tl 
developed a certain facility with pencil and sciS' 
sors ; the rudimentary paper animals an ' 
fairies gradually assumed more possible 
forms ; the chair-back was replaced by a 
wooden soap or candle box with the bot- 
tom knocked out ; and the sheet of 
paper gave way to a piece of white mus- 
lin. Thus, step by step, grew up the 
puppet-show, from which so much pleas- 
ure and amusement has been derived 
by the writer and his young friends 
that he now considers it not only a 
pleasure, but his duty, to tell the 
readers of St. Nicholas how to 
make one like it for themselves. 

The construction of properties and act- 
ors, and the manipulation of the puppets 
at an exhibition, are by no means the least of 
the fun. To start the readers fairly in their career 
of stage-managers, this article not only will tell 
how to build the theater and make the actors, but 
it will give an original adaptation of an old story, 
prepared especially for a puppet-show. 

Among the rubbish of the lumber-room, or attic, 
you can hardly fail to find an old frame of some 
kind, — one formerly used for a picture or old- 
fashioned mirror would be just the thing. Should 
your attic contain no frames, very little skill with 
carpenters' tools is required to manufacture a strong 
wooden stretcher. It need not be ornamental, but 
should be neat and tidy in appearance, and about 
two feet long by eighteen inches high. 

On the back of this, tack a piece of white muslin, 
being careful to have it stretched perfectly tight, 
like a drum-head. The cloth should have no 
seams nor holes in it to mar the plain surface. 

A simple way to support the frame in an upright 
position is to make a pair of "shoes," of triangular 
pieces of wood. In the top of each shoe a rectan- 
gular notch should be cut, deep enough to hold the 
frame firmly. Figure No. I shows a wooden frame 
on a table, and the manner in which the shoes 
should be made. 

The scenery can be cut out of card-board. Very 
natural-looking trees may be made of sticks with 
bunches of pressed moss pasted upon the ends. 
Pressed maiden-hair fern makes splendid tropical 
foliage, and tissue or any other thin paper may be 


used for still water. Thin paper 
allows the light to pass partially 
through, and the shadow that the spectator 
sees is lighter than the silhouette scenery 
around, and hence has a sort of translu- 
cent, watery look. Scenery of all kinds should be 
placed flat against the cloth when in use. 

And now that you have a general idea how the 




show is workeS, I will confine my remarks to the 
play in hand. It is a version of the old story of 
" Puss-in-Boots," and there will be given here pat- 
terns for all the puppets neces- v / 
sary, although in the court \'^ #1/ 



scene you can introduce as 
many more as you like. 

The first scene is the old 

This scene should be made 
of such a length that, witli the 
bridge and approach, it will 
just fit in the frame. Fake 
the measurement of the inside 
of the frame. Then take a 
stiff piece of card-board of the requisite length, and 
with a pencil carefully copy the illustration, omit- 
ting the wheel. Lay the card-board flat upon a 
pine board or old kitchen table, and w ith a sharp 
knife (the tile blade is the best) follow the lines you 
ha\e drawn. Cut out the spaces where the water 
is marked, and paste tissue-paper in their place. 
Take another piece of card-board and cut out a 
wheel; in the center of this cut a small, square 
hole, through which push the end of a stick, as in 



/ r — 


beams of the mill. (See Figure No. 3. ) The wheel 
can then be made to turn at pleasure by twirling 
between the fingers the stick to which the wheel 
is attached. 

To make Puss : Take a piece of tracing paper, 
and carefully trace with a soft pencil the outlines 
of the cat, from the illustration here given. Then 
tack the four corners of the tracing, reversed (that 
is, with the tracing under), on a piece of card-board. 
Any business-card will answer for this pur- 

pose. Now, by going \ over the lines (which 
will show I through the tracing 

paper) with ^-^•—■^4^ H ahard pencil, you will 
find it will "^ ^ '§ leave a sufficiently 
strong irn- 


pression on the card to guide 
you in cutting out the puppet. 

Almost all the puppets can be made in the same 
way. Puss as he first appears, the rabbit, rat, 
and bag, should be impaled upon the end of a 
broom-.straw ; but the remaining puppets should 
each have a stick or straw attached to one leg, or 
some other suitable place, just as the stick is pasted 
10 the donkey's leg as represented in Figure No. 4. 


Figure No. 2. Drive a pin into the end of the Corsando and the donkey are made of two 
stick, allowing it to protrude far enough to fit separate pieces, as indicated in Figure No. 4. The 
easily into a slot cut for that purpose in the cross- dotted line shows the continuation of the outUne of 




the fonvard piece. Cut out the two pieces in 
accordance with the diagram, and then place the 
tail-piece over the head-piece, and at the point 
marked ' ' knot," make a pin-hole through both pieces 
of the puppet. Tie one end- of a piece of heavy 
thread into a good hard knot ; put the other end of 
the thread through the holes just made, draw the 
knotted end close up against the puppet, and then 
tie another knot upon the 
opposite side, snug against 
the card-board, and cut off 
the remaining end of the 
thread. Having done this, 
tie a piece of fine thread to 
the point near the knee of 

King separately, and then fastening the lower end 
of his body to the coach in the way the two parts 
of the donkey are joined, he can be made to sit up- 
right, to fall forward -♦-W when desired, and 
to look out as Puss j approaches, in the 

attitude show n in ^^^ one of the illus- 

trations. This .^H^^ will add to 

the effect. 



Corsando, and fasten a stick to the fore leg of the 
donkey, as shown in Figure No. 4. Paste a 
straw in one of Corsando's hands for a whip, and 
two pieces of string in the 
other hand for a halter or 
bridle. By holding in one 
hand the stick attached to 

In cutting out the puppet showing Carabas in a 
bathing-suit, use as pattern only the silhouette part 
of the second figure of him ; by following the open 
outline, you will have Carabas in court dress. 

To make Puss carry the Bag, the operator will 
have to use both hands, holding in one hand the 
stick attached to Puss, and in the other the straw 
attached to the Bag. Then, by keeping the Bag 
close against Pussy's paws, it will appear to the 
audience as if he were holding the Bag. In the 
same manner he is made to carry the dead Rabbit 
to the King. When the Rabbit seems to hop into 
the Bag, he, in real- - ity, hops behind it, 

and then drops be- "\ low the stage. 

The operator .^^^^ ) must remember 
never to allow jS^^^L / his or her hands 



the leg of the donkey, and gently pulling the 
thread marked "string" in the diagram, the don- 
key can be made to kick up in a most natural and 
mirth-provoking manner. 

When you make the King and Princess in their 
coach, you will have to enlarge the whole drawing 
proportionally, so that each horse will be about as 
large as Corsando's donkey. By cutting out the 


to pass between the light and 
the cloth, as the shadow of an immense hand upon 
the cloth would ruin the whole effect. All the 
puppets for each scene should be carefully selected 




before the curtain rises, 
that the operator can at 
hand upon the one wanted. 
be no talking behind the 
scenes; and the puppets should 
be kept moving in as life-like a 
manner as possible while their 
speeches are being made for 
them. Several rehearsals are 
nccessar)' to make the show pass 
off successfully. With these hints, 
we will now go on with the play. 

and so placed 

once lay his 

There must 



PirppETs: Carabas, afterw-ird the Marqcis; his oldest brother, the 
Millbr; Corsando, his next older brother: Pltss-iN-BooTs: 
Wolfgang, the Ogre ; King; Princess: King's Skrvants: 
Donkey : Rabbit : Bag : Rat. .\1so, if desired. Courtiers. 

Act J. Scene I. 

Scene: L,-indscape with tree, bridge, mill at one side. Corsa.ndo 
discovered riding the Donkey backward and fr)rw.ird. Miller 
and Carabas emerge from the mill, and stop under tree. 

-Miller : 

Come, come, brother Carabas, don't be downcast ! 
You know, as the youngest, you must be the last. 
Our father, of course, left to me the old mill, 
.And the ass to Corsando, for so reads the will; 
.■\nd he had noth- 
ing else but our 

big pussy-tat. 
Which is all 

he could 

give you. 

.\ fool can 

see that ! 
Yet Dick 


ton once 

the Lord 


Mayor became. 
And his start and yours arc precisely the same. 
But see ! I am wasting my time from the mill, 
For while I am talking the wheels are all still. 
I have nothing to give you — -be that under- 
So farewell, my brother ! May your fortune 
be good. 

[Exit Miller into Mill, when wheel begins to turn. Corsando 
approaches, and stopping the Donkey in front of Carabas, ad- 
dresses him. 

Corsando : 

Now, dear brother Carabas, take my advice : 

Go hire out your cat to catch other men's mice. 

Vol. IX.— 15. 

[Corsando turns to leave; Puss comes out and gives the Donkey a 
scratch, causing him to kick wildly as he goes off. 

C.'VR.'VBAS : O Fortune, befriend me ! what 

now shall I do ? 
Come, Pussy, stay by mc — I de- 
pend upon you. 
You arc all that I h.ive. but can 

do me no good, 
Unless 1 should kill you and cook 

you for food. 
Puss : 

Meow! Meow! Kill me not, my 
good master, I pray — 
Have mercy upon mc ! Now list ^vhat I say : 
I 'in no common cat, 
I assure you of that. 
In tlie top of the mill, where the solemn owl 

You will find, if you look, an old [lair of top-boots. 

Bring them to me, 
With the bag you 

will sec 
Under the mill, by 
the roots of yon 

the rabbit 
leaping into 


Carabas : 
Well, Puss, 
you ask for I will not refuse, 


Since I have all t( 

uain and have nothing to 

[Exit into the mill. 

[Puss stands a moment as if to think, then capers up .ind down the 
stage and speaks. 

Puss : A rat ? Bah ! w hat 's that ? 

Sir Whittington's cat 
Would have grown very fat, 
Mad she lived upon such prey. 
All the time, day after day, 
Till she made a Lord Mayor of her 
master ! 
But mine shall gain a name 
Through much sweeter game, 
And not only climb higher but 

faster ! [Curtain. 

Ac/ I. Scene II. 

Scene : Woods. Enter Puss-in-Boots, carrj-- 
ing Bag. 

Puss : 

Mey-o-w ! m-e-y-o-w ! 

Were it not for these boots I should the rabbit.— 


sure have pegged out ; 
But if I 'm not mistaken, there 's game here- 

For I scent in the air 
A squirrel or hare. 
1 wonder now whether he 's lean, lank, or stout? 




But I know a habit 
Of the shy little rabbit: 
He 'II enter this bag, and then, my ! wont I 
grab it ? 

[Arranges bag. and hides : Rabbit comes out, and, after running 
away several times, enters the Bag, when Puss pounces upon 


To the King in a moment I '11 take you, my dear, 

For he 's e'en over-fond of fat rabbits, I hear. 

An I once gain his ear, 

I see my way clear; 
For I '11 tell him a story both wondrous and queer. 
And then my poor master '11 have nothing to 
fear — 


Act II. Scene I. 

Scene: King's Palace. King discovered standing behind a throne. 
Princess and attendants standing around. A loud "meow ! " 
heard without. King and Col-rt start. Enter Puss, with Rab- 
bit in his paws. 


Meow ! My great Liege, may Your Majesty please 

To smile on a slave who thus, here on his knees, 

A humble offering 

From Carabas doth bring. 

And Sire, my master further bade me say. 

If it please his gracious King, he will gladly 

send each day 
The choicest game that in his coverts he can find ; 
And your kind acceptance of it still closelier will 

A hand and a heart as loyal and true 
As e'er swore allegiance, O King, unto you ! 

King : 

Your master has a happy way 

Of sending gifts. Thus to him say, 

That we accept his offer kind, 

And some good day, perhaps, may find 

A way to thank him which will prove 

We value most our subjects' love. 

Carabas, is your master's name ? 

What rank or title doth he claim ? 

Shall we among the high or low 

Look for your lord, who loves us so ? 

Puss : 

A marquis is my master, Sire ; 

In wealth and honor none are higher. 

[Aside : 

(Cats must have a conscience callous ! 
Who work their way into a palace.) 

Now, if it please Your Majesty, 
I will return, and eagerly 
To my marquis inaster bring 
This kind message from his king. 

• [C;;rtain. 

Act If. Scene II. 

Scene : High-road ; one or two trees. Carabas and Puss-IN- 
BooTS discovered. 


Meow ! my good master, have patience I pray. 


Patience to doctors! I 'm hungry, 1 say! 

Puss : 

All will go well if )'ou mind me to-day, 

And while the sun shines we must surely make 


Carry your hay to Jericho ! 
Who can eat hay, I 'd like to know ! 

Meow ! my good master, your help 1 implore, 
And while I help fortune, you open the door. 


No house do I own, so where is the door? — 

Ah ! Pussy, forgive me, I '11 grumble no more, 

But help all I can in your nice little plan ; 

For I know you have brains, Puss, as well as 

a man. 
Puss : 

Meow ! my good master, e'en though you froze, 
You must bathe in yon river ! 
[E.\it Carabas. 

And now for his clothes ! 
The King's coach is coming, and I 've laid a 

scheme — 
Though of that, I am sure, the King does n't 

The coach is in sight ! Now, may I be blessed 
If I don't wish my master was wholly undressed ! 

[Loud cries without. 

There! now hear him screaming — the water is 

cold ; 
I '11 go bury his clothes, for they need it — they 

're old. 

[Exit Puss, who soon returns. As he reenters, the King's Coach 

Puss : Meow ! my good master I Alas for him ! 
Help ! Fire ! Murder I My master can't swim. 

[Runs to Coach. 

Help ! help ! gracious King, or Lord Carabas 
drowns I 


Ho, slaves ! To the rescue ! A hundred gold 

Will we give to the man who saves Carabas' life ! 

[SER^■ASTS rush across the stage. [King continues, aside: 

My daughter shall soon make the marquis a wife. 

HOW TO MAKE I' T 1' I' K TS AND I' I' P P E 1' - S II O WS . 


Puss (aside) : 

Mighty keen are a cat's ears ! 

Who knows all that Pussy hears ! 
This is better than 1 hoped for, by a heap. 

What a very lucky thing 

The blessed, kind old King 
Does n't know this shallow river is n't deep ! 

[Exit Puss, running after Servants. Piss immediately 
returns, crying : 

O King ! what a combobbery ! 

Act in. Scene I. 

Scene: Interiorof Ogre's castle. Puss-IN-BooTS discovered. 
Puss : 

I 'm here at kist ! 
Much danger 

's past; 


There 's been an awful robbery. 
And no clothing for the marquis can we find. 


That is no great disaster, 
For tell your worthy master 
We always pack an extra suit behind. 
If we can trust 
He's just about 
So, while in 
yonder grove 
we take a rest, 
Your master 
'11 not en ^^^^ ^^^^ 

use our coach. 
And not to haste, 
but drive up when 
he 's dressed. 

[Exit Coach, backingout. 
the Driver crying: 

Whoa ! Hack ! 

Back ! No room 
to turn here ! 


Whoa ! Back ! Back ! 

[KntcrCARADAS, in bathing-suit. Pi:ss runs after him. 


Meow, my good master ! 

1 could n't do it faster. 
But 1 'vc now a costly suit, and just your size. 

In the King's coach you're to ride. 

With the Princess by your side; 
Make love to her, and praise her beauteous eyes. 

And, master, list to me ! 

Whate'er you hear or see, 
Be very sure you never show surprise. 


But such long tramps my liking hardly 

'T was wisdom when I guessed 
That it was surely best 
To secure these blessed, helpful old top-boots 
I was made to understand 
That all this beauteous land 
Belonged to this man-eating old Wolfgang. 
But as down the road I sped, 
To each laborer I said : 
Your life upon your answer now doth hang. 
When the sovereign comes 

this way, 
When he questions, you 

straightway : 
•• This land belongs to Cara- 
bas," must say. 

[. Awful growling and noise heard, 
.ind Wolfgang enters. 


Blood and thunder ! 
Who, I wonder, 
Sent me such a tempting 
pussy-cat for dinner? 
I can't under- 
stand the blunder ; 
But I 'm glad, my pussy-cat, 
that you 're no thinner. 



M-e-o-w ! — my brother Wolfgang — (ah, how 

I would n't have believed 
You so easily deceived. 
Know that I am Catoscratch, the witch. 




Wolfgang : Rattledy bang ! 

Snake and fang ! 
So you 're a witch, all skilled in herbs and roots ! 

fMy power is no less, 
But 1 must confess 
That 1 ne'er before this saw 
a cat in boots ! 


Puss : 

Meow ! my brother, speak 

not of my skill : 
'T is true 1 can change 
to a cat, but no more, 
While fame says that you 

can assume at your will 

Any form that you please, 

be it higher or lower. 

Many a league. 

With much fatigue, 

From a country of ice and 


On my broomstick steed 
Have 1 come, with speed. 
These great wonders to see and know. 

Wolfgang : 

Cuts and slashes ! 
Blood in splashes ! 
Who dares doubt what I can do? 
Now tell me, old witch, 
Of the many forms, 

Shall I take to 
prove this to you ? 


Meow ! my great 

Wolfgang, it 

seems to me that 
Of all 't would be 

hardest to turn 

to a rat ! 

[Wolfgang must be 
drawn backward tow- 
ard the light. This will 
cause his shadow to 
grow to immense pro- 
portions. After slowly 
lifting him over the 
candle, take up the 
Rat and just as slowly 
put it over the light, 
and move the puppet 
up until it touches the 
cloth. The audience 
will see Wolfgang 
swell up to a shapeless 
mass, and then, ap- 
parently, reduce him- '^"^ "C""^' 

self to a tiny rat. 

Puss must then be made to pounce upon the Rat, and by pass- 
ing the Rat behind Puss, and then letting it drop, it will look to 
the audience as if Puss swallowed the Rat whole. 


Bah! Ugh! Spat! 
What a horrid rat ! 


bathing-suit : then 
in court dress. 

[Struts up and down the stage. 

Well, 1 think for a cat I 'm pretty plucky ! 
Now I '11 go and bring 

The Princess and the King 

To the castle of Lord Car- 
abas, The Lucky ! 

[Puss, dancing frantically, laugh- 
ing and purring, nearly tumbles 
against the King, Carabas, and 
the Princess, as they enter. 


Pardon, most gracious 
Sire, pardon, great 
King ! 

That your humble servant 
should do such a thing ; 

It 's because 1 'm so de- 

More than if I had been 

That the marquis, my mas- 
ter, should entertain the 

King : 

A truly faithful servant you must be. Pussy. 
When the marquis can spare you, come to 
me. Pussy. 
We '11 see that you 're not slighted. 
Even now you shall be knighted, 
Sir Thomas Cat de Boots your name shall 
be, Pussy. 

King, continuing, to Cabadas; 

This casde, marquis brave, 
Beats the very best we have. 

Carabas : 

Most gracious Sire, there 's not a thing 
Belongs to me 

[Puss rushes frantically to Carabas, and whispers in his ear; then 

Carabas : 

But to my King. 
For my life and all I have to thee I owe. 


My Carabas, we 're pleased ; 

Our mind is cheered and 

For we feared that this great 

castle held a foe. 

'T is a princely home, 't is 


And we '1! make a prince of )'0u. 
You shall wed m)- charming daughter, ere 
we go. 


22 I 

Puss : M-e-o-w ! M-e-o-w ! M-c-o-w ! 

What would say his brothers, now, 
If they saw Lord Marquis Carabas the Great? 

And until the last horn toots 
(With Sir Thomas Cat de Boots), 
He shall occupy his present high estate ! 

[All dance. [Curtain. 


By Frank Bellew. 

grown to be nine years old, and 
his father and mother thought it 
was high time he should begin 
to go to school. So, as soon ;is 
the Christmas holidays were 
over, Tommy's mother dressed 
him in good warm clothes, 
and giving him a basket full of bread and meat 
and pie and doughnuts, she sent him off to the 
village school-house, two miles away. 

On the next page is his portrait as he appeared 
at starting, and as it does not reveal to you the 
expression of his mouth, nor the form of his nose, 
we may as well say that in those features he did 
not differ greatly from the average American 

As to his clothes, although they were good and 
warm, they were all home-made, and they were 
the funniest lot of wearables ever seen in that 
district, — one garment having been reconstructed 
from an old army-coat of his father's. His father 
and mother owned a small farm, out of which they 
just managed to make a living, and that was all. 

The first day that Tommy went to school, all the 
dogs along the road rushed out and barked at him ; 
but he was not afraid of dogs — indeed, he was 
very fond of them, and so he had a pleasant word 
for each of these, and to two or three who looked 
rather lean he gave a bit of his lunch. 

Every day after that, as he went to school, he 
would take a little parcel of scraps, such as chicken- 
bones, and bits of fat or bacon-rind, and give them 
to different dogs on the way, until at last they all 
looked out for the coming of Tommy Toodle- 
macker, and as he passed, trotted out, wagging 
their tails, as much as to say (provided they were 
Irish dogs), "There is our old friend Tommy. 
The top of the morning to you. Tommy " ; or 
(if they were very sober native American dogs), 
" How do you do, Thomas Toodlemacker ? " 

This went on for some months, until, one fine 
morning. Tommy did not come past as usual, 
and when the dogs trotted out at the regular hour 
with their tails all ready to wag, and no Tommy 
came, they crawled back with their unwagged tails 
hanging dow^n, for they were much disappointed. 

When the second morning came, and no Tommy 
arrived, all the dogs grew very anxious, and one 
big fellow named Bruno galloped off to Tommy's 
house, and there learned from Tommy's own dog 
(for of course he had a dog) that their poor little 
friend was sick in bed. 

This sad news was soon con\eyed to all the 
other dogs, and they at once held a council of sym- 
pathy, and all agreed that, as Tommy was sick, he 
must want something to eat, and they would each 
save the finest bone out of his supper, and carry it 
over to their sick friend next morning. 

So, early the next day, a file of dogs of all 
sorts and sizes might have been seen, each with 
a bone in his mouth, marching along the road 
toward Tommy Toodlemacker's home. When they 
got there, and found he was too sick to be 
interviewed, each deposited his bone at the front 
door (just as fashionable gentlemen leave their 
cards), and then they marched off again. 

This ceremony was repeated every morning, even 
after Tommy got well enough to come out and see 
the dogs, and pat each one on the head, and say, 
" How do you do ?" And every morning, after they 
had gone, Tommy's father took the fresh pile of 
bones and put them in a barrel in the wood- 

Now, by the time Tommy was quite well, the 
barrel in the wood-shed was full up to the brim 
with bones, and Tommy scarcely knew what to do 
with them, for he was a tender-hearted little fel- 
low, and was afraid the dogs' feelings might be 
hurt if they should find out he had not eaten the 
bones. Just as he w'as wondering whether it would 
be better to throw them into the river or to 



bury them in the garden, along came a funny old 
man in an old rattle-trap of a wagon, drawn by 
a broken-kneed, broken-spirited old horse. And 
this man asked Tommy if he had any old rags, or 
bottles, or bones to sell. Tommy had no idea that 
any one ever bought bones, and you may believe 
that he was rather astonished when the funny old 
man, after looking at his stock of bones, offered 
him a dollar and fifty cents for them. 

Tommy scarcely knew whether he stood on his 
head or his heels, he was so delighted ; but when he 
found he was right-side up, and when the man 



gave him a real silver dollar and a real silver half- 
dollar from a bag full of dollars and greenbacks, he 

thought he must be the richest man 
in the world, or a fairy in disguise, 
or something wonderful. 

When he told his mother what 
had happened, she, too, was de- 
lighted, and advised him to put his 
money in a box, and when he 
should get any more, to save it up ; 
for that was the way to become rich, 
or, at least, it was one way. 

So Tommy put his money in a 
box, and his mind to collecting 
bones, and rags, and bottles, and 
old horseshoes, and scraps of iron. 
This may not seem a very nice kind 
of occupation to many of my 
young readers, but to Tommy it was as good fun 
as nutting or fishing, and quite as exciting. And, 
besides, he had all his old friends, the dogs, to help 
him ; for, when they found it gave him pleasure to 
receive bones, they brought him all the big ones 
they could not eat. And so it came to be a regu- 
lar thing for the funny old rag-man to come around 
once a month, when Tommy always had a stock 
of bones, and horseshoes, and bottles, and some- 
times rags, to sell him ; but as a general rule, all 
the rags were required for Tommy's own wardrobe. 
Well, this went on for three years, and then 
Tommy, who had talked a good deal to the funny 




old man, and had learned some things about the 
rag and bottle business, bought himself a little light 
kind of wagon, which he used to drag about the 
countr)- to the farmers' houses, when he would buy 
their old stuff, and eoUect it, and sell it to the 
funny old man at a profit. And here, too, one of 
his old friends among the dogs helped him : big 
Bruno's master died, and he came to live with 
Tommy, and he helped to drag his wagon around 
the country. 

At first, Tommy used to pay in money for the 
bones and bottles that he bought ; but after a while 
he found out a better plan : he went to the neigh- 
boring town, and laid in a stock of needles and 

thread, and buttons, and candies, and such things, 
which he found tempted the women and children 
more than money, and besides gave him a larger 

And so, at length, when I last heard of him. 
Tommy Toodlemacker, although he was only fifteen 
years old, had cle\en hundred and seventy-five 
dollars in bank, and he may yet be as rich as the 
great Parsee millionaire, Sir Jamsctsjee Jiggeboy 
(if that is the way to spell his extraordinary name), 
who started in life with two empty ale-bottles, and 
died in Calcutta one of the richest men in the 
world, after building hospitals, and baths, and 
doing great good for his fellow-creatures. 




Only a wooden lady, 

With but half an arm at most ; 

Yet her look is so quaint. 

And so fresh is her paint, 

My heart is forever lost ! 

Only a wooden lady, 
Is all that your eyes can see ; 

But the straight up and down 
Of her plain wooden gown 
Has a hundred charms for me. 

Only a wooden lady ! 

But that does n't alter my plan. 
For, in spite of that clause, 
I can love her, because 

I 'm onlv a wooden man ! 










By Sophie Swett. 

The farm was perched up on the very top ot 
Crow Hill, and everybody in the town called it 
the Crow's-nestf and, before long, they began to 
call the Jones family, that moved there, " the 
Crows," to distinguish them from another family 
of Joneses, in the town. 

They began by calling them the " Crow-hill 
Joneses," but they were economical people in 
Damsonfield, and could not spend time to say all 
that. None of the Jones family minded having it 
shortened, excepting Jim: he did n't like to be 
called Jim Crow. 

They had moved to the Crow's-nest from a 
manufacturing city, where the father, until his 
health failed, had been an overseer in one of the 
mills. When he became unable to work, the 
three older children — Enoch, and Abijah, and 
Priscilla — went into the mill, and earned just 
enough to keep the wolf from the door. There 
were so many mouths to feed and feet to shoe, so 
many sharp little elbows to stick through jacket- 
sleeves, so many restless knees to wear out trou- 
sers, that the father's hoard of savings melted 
rapidly away, and if a distant relative had not 
died and bequeathed this old farm to them, 1 am 
afraid they would have suffered for shelter and 
food. Even now they had almost forgotten how 
gingerbread tasted, and as for a good, crisp, rosy- 
cheeked apple, they knew they might as well wish 
for the moon. 

They moved to the Crow's-nest early in April, 
and in the sweet, fresh, country air which he had 
longed for, their father breathed his last. Their 
mother had died three years before, and they were 
all alone in the world. 

They held a family council to consider what 
they had better do. It was held in the barn, on 
the hay-mow. They had had so much of being 
shut up within four walls in their lives, that they 
did n't mean to have any more, of it than the\' 
could help. Barns were new to their experience, 
and very fascinating; with the great door open, 
and the balmy May wind blowing through, it was 
even better than out-of-doors, especially to Jim 
and Nehemiah, because there was an opportunity 
to create a diversion by performing circus feats on 
the great beams, if the proceedings should prove 

Enoch, as the head of the family, was the chief 
spokesman. He was almost sixteen, and they all 
thought that, if there was anybody in the world 

who was wise and venerable, it was their Enoch. 
When he had worked hard, all day, in the mill, 
he went to evening school, and spent all his spare 
time in study. And all the other Crows boasted 
that the minister could n't ask Enoch a question 
that he could n't answer; and they declared that, 
if he did n't get to be President some day, it would 
only be because the people did n't know who was 
fit for President ! He was strong, too, if he was 
slender, and he had never failed to " get the better 
of any fellow that pitched into him." I am afraid 
that all his wisdom and learning would have gone 
for but little with Jim and Nehemiah if he could 
not have done that. 

Enoch said there were two alternatives : They 
could sell the farrfi, and buy a little house in the 
city which they had come from. The older ones 
could work in the mill, and support the family 
comfortably, since they would no longer have rent 
to pay, and the others could go to school. Or 
they could stay where they were, and try to get a 
living off the farm. Some people said the land 
was poor, and " run down," and they were young, 
and inexperienced in farming, and had no money 
to begin with, but they might try what stout 
hearts and willing hands could do ; and there was 
the district school where they could all go in the 
winter, and a high school over In the village. 
(Enoch was always looking out for an education.) 

" Priscilla tied her forehead up in a knot." as 
Abijah said, while she thought about it. She 
was only fourteen, but she had been the "house- 
mother " for a long time, and she knew they 
would need a thousand little things the others 
did n't think of, and it did not seem possible to 
her that all those things could grow out of that 
dry, stubbly-looking ground — Sunday hats, and 
copper-toed shoes, and all ! But, when she thought 
of going back to the mills, she gave a great sigh, 
as if her heart would break, especially for little 
Absalom's sake; he was delicate, and needed 
countn- air. 

When the question was put to vote, it came 
out that they were all of one mind. 

With the grass growing greener ever\' day. and 
the buds swelling on the fruit-trees ; with Methu- 
selah, the old gray horse, rolling and kicking up 
his heels like a colt on the grass ; with Towzer, 
the great Newfoundland dog, basking in the sun- 
shine ; with the white turkey promenading through 
the barn, followed by her newly fledged brood — 




the procession headed by the bristling, strutting 
gobbler, whose airs and whose scolding were a 
never-failing delight; with a dozen chicks — 
downy, chirping balls, which had that very morn- 
ing ijecked their way into the world from the 
most ordinary-looking egg-shells: with ducks that 
set out in a waddling procession for the brook 
as regularly as if they had watches in their 
pockets; with seven tiny, brand-new pigs in the 
pen, every one with a most fascinating quirk in his 



tail ; with Buttercup the cow, and her fawn-col- 
ored calf, to be fed and petted; with a hive full 
of bees, that made honey which was the pride 
of the whole neighborhood; with a strawberry-lied, 
two long rows of currant-bushes, and an orchard, 
with cherry, and pear, as well as apple trees ; with 
wild-strawberry vines in abundance in their south 
meadow, and chestnut-trees in the grove behind the 
house; — with all these present and prospective 
delights, more enchanting to these poor little Crows 
than any country child can possibly imagine, — 

could they think of going back to the narrow, 
stifling, brick-walled streets — to the dirt and din 
of the mills ? 

Jim, who was the belligerent one of the family, 
doubled up his fists and took the floor, in fighting 
attitude, to show his opinion of such a proposal, 
and little Absalom, who had discovered the advan-' 
tage of making a noise in the world in order to 
carry his point, set up an car-splitting howl. 

" We '11 hunt bears and wolves, and dress our- 
selves in skins, like Robinson Crusoe and his man 
Friday," said Nehemiah, solving the problem of 
clothes, which Knoch had suggested. 

And Nancy echoed this brilliant idea. Nehe- 
miah and Nancy were twins, and Nehemiah fur- 
nished ideas for both. Nehcmiah's ideas were 
not always regarded as strictly practical Ijy other 
people, but they suited Nancy. 

Jim said the woods were full of rabbits and par- 
tridges, and he was going to tame a gray squirrel 
and carry him about in his pocket ; and the coast- 
ing down Crow Hill in the winter must be " im- 
mense " ; he should think anybody was crazy to 
talk about going back to the city ! 

But Jim was not quite eleven, and he was not 
looked upon, liy the older Crows, as much more 
of a business man than Nehemiah. 

Abijah was only two years older than Jim, but 
th'e\' called him Solomon, he was so wise and pru- 
dent. He looked like a little old man, with his 
shrewd, shriveled face and stooping shoulders. In 
fact, Abijah was a little too prudent; he did not 
dare attempt much of anything, lest it should not 
turn out well, and he borrowed trouble whenever 
there was any to lend. 

" If Absalom should get lost in the woods, and a 
bear should eat him, I guess we should feel bad ! 
We should wish we had gone back to the city." 
This was .Abijah's remark. 

Little Absalom set up a dismal screaming at the 
prospect of this untimely end, and his mind was 
only diverted from it by his being allowed to take 
a peeping little chicken in his hand — -a proceeding 
not countenanced by the mother hen. 

" If the house should burn down, on a winter's 
night, we should freeze before we could get to the 
nearest neighbor's ; and if we can't get money to 
pay the taxes, they '11 put us all in jail ; and it 
would be just exactly like Nancy to get choked to 
death with a cherry-stone ! " continued Abijah, 

But with all these catastrophes before his mental 
vision, Abijah still preferred staying at the Crow's- 
nest to going back to the city. He knew of even 
more perils there, because he had been thinking 
them up all his life. 

" Then it is decided that we shall stav," said 




Enoch, at last; and just as he said it, the big- 
gest rooster, who was all purple, and green, and 
gold, and walked as if the ground were not good 
enough for him to step on, mounted the saw-horse, 
and crowed — a triumphant cock-a-doodle-do, as if 
he had some especial cause for rejoicing. 

" It really seems as if that were a good sign," 
said Priscilla, and all the wrinkles were suddenly 
smoothed out of her forehead. 

But Jim, who did n't believe in signs, said that 
the rooster probably got up late, and had n't yet 
had time to get his crowing all done that morning. 

Nehemiah and Nancy thought there was some- 
thing very queer about that rooster, and that he 
might prove to be as wonderful and useful as Puss- 
in-Boots, or the Goose that laid the Golden Egg. 
They took to the marvelous as naturally as a duck 
takes to water, and they were deeply learned in 
giant and fairy lore. To be sure, they had never 
met any of those wonderful beings outside of story 
books, but then such folk were not supposed to live 
in cities. Here, in the country, they expected to 
meet a fairy at every turn. 

They all went to work with a will to prove that, 
although they had everything to learn, they could 
be good farmers. There was one thing that 
frightened and discouraged them, and that was the 
tax-bill, which was due when the farm came into 
their possession, and which they were being pressed 
for, and had no means of paying. 

If they could only be allowed to wait until their 
crops were harvested, they felt sure of being able 
to pay it, but the old farmers in the neighborhood 
had very little faith in their ability to raise crops, 
and the tax-collector was impatient. They must 
sell something off the farm to pay the bill, that was 
clear, but the question was, what had they that 
anybody would pay so much money for ? They 
could not spare Methuselah, and, if they could, he 
was so old that nobody wanted to buy him. But 
the)- had two cows, and Buttercup was part Alder- 
ney, and very handsome, and they thought her 
milk was better than the other cow's, though it was 
all so different from city milk that they could not 
quite decide. 

Enoch walked down to the village, one night, to 
try to find a purchaser for Buttercup. He came 
back in high spirits, saying that Doctor Douglas 
had seen and admired her, and offered a good 
price for her ; it was enough to pay the tax-bill, 
and something over. Tony, the doctor's colored 
boy, would come for the cow the next morning. 

There was great rejoicing at this news, although 
a little sorrow would mingle with it at the thought of 
parting with Buttercup. She had a saucy way of 
tossing her head, and some of the neighbors had 
hinted that she was not always good-tempered; but 

with the Crows she had always seemed a most 
amicable cow, and they would have parted with 
Daisy, the other cow, much less sadly. Butter- 
cup's calf would have to go, too ; that was the worst 
of it, the children thought; it was so pretty — fawn- 
colored, with white spots, and with beautiful, soft, 
brown eyes. 

They all assembled to take leave 'of Buttercup 
and the calf when Tony appeared, early the next 
morning. Absalom, to whose mind tax-bills were 
unimportant, howled piteously, and Abijah prophe- 
sied that they should never have another such cow 
and calf as long as they lived. But the others 
were so happy in the thought of having the bill 
paid that they thought little about Buttercup. 

Buttercup's opinion, however, seemed to agree 
with Abijah's and little Absalom's. The moment 
that she saw Tony, she gave her head one of those 
saucy tosses, and when he approached her, rope in 
hand, with a sudden, vicious jerk she brought her 
horns into very unpleasant proximity to his jacket. 

Tony retreated, but manfully returned to the 
charge, this time offering Buttercup a turnip as a 
bribe. But Buttercup used not only her horns, 
but her heels now, and with such effect that over 
went the milking-stool, sticks flew off the wood- 
pile, the wheelbarrow was broken into pieces, the 
saw-horse and the pitchfork were whisked into the 
air, the hens and ducks flew about, cackling and 
quacking ; and when Tony and all the Crows had 
retired to a respectful distance, and left Buttercup 
mistress of the situation, what did that knowing 
rooster do but get up on the fence and crow with 
all his might ! 

Absalom clapped his hands with delight, and 
Abijah recalled several instances which he had 
heard of persons being killed by vicious cows. 
And Nehemiah and Nancy decided that it was 
probable, judging by the height to which Butter- 
cup kicked up her heels, that she was the very cow 
that jumped over the moon. 

Tony's wool fairly stood upright with terror, and 
he rolled his eyes so wildly that but little more 
than the whites was visible. 

" Dat am a cur'us cow, no mistake!" remarked 
Tony, surveying Buttercup critically — from a dis- 
tance. " 'Pears like dere 's an uncommon libeli- 
ness about her. See hyar ! You 'd better cotch 
her ; she mought hab a dislike to a gcmman ob 
color." And he handed the rope to Enoch. 

Abijah, and Priscilla, and Jim, all clung to 
Enoch, and begged him not to go near the cow, 
and even Nehemiah and Nancy clung to his coat- 

" Do you suppose I am going to let that little 
darkey think I am afraid?" said Enoch, in a low 
but awful voice. 


THE cow THAT C O N S 1 I) K R E D. 


And he shook them all off, put the rope in his 
pocket, so that it need not offend liuttercup's 
eyes, and walked boldly up to her, addressing her 
in persuasive and complimentary terms, such as: 

" Quiet now, Buttercup ! Cood old Buttercup ! 
Nice cow ! " 

But Buttercup was not to be deceived by flattery. 
She cocked her head on one side, and gave Enoch 
a knowing and wicked look, that was as much as 
to sav: " Vou can't put a rope around niv nerk. 

with wrath, and evidently feeling like the knight 
who declared it 

" Etcmal shame if al the from 
I>ord Ronald grace not battle's bnmt." 

The gobbler was always ready to take sides in a 
combat ; you never found him sitting on the fence, 
when a fight was going on. The wliitc turkey 
gathered her brood around her, and surveyed the 
rontost from afir, witli a dignified and matronly air. 

IK r^ cow, N< 

sir, even if you have kissed the blarney stone ! If 
you think you can, you had better try it ! " 

Enoch stopped, irresolute, even with the '" little 
darkey " looking on. Buttercup cast down her 
eyes, and chewed her cud with a mild and virtuous 
expression of countenance, and Enoch went toward 
her ; he was near enough to put his hand upon 
her, when, with a dive of her horns and a fling of 
her heels, off she started on a run. Enoch started 
in pursuit, and so did Towzer, barking furiously : 
so did the calf, frisking and prancing, as if it were 
great fun ; so did the gobbler, bristling all over 

Jim followed the procession, turning a somer- 
sault now and then, as he went, to relieve his 
excited feelings, and Tony sat on the fence and 
cheered on Buttercup and her pursuers, first one, 
and then the other, with strict impartiality, self- 
interest evidently being lost sight of in the excite- 
ment of the contest. Buttercup, becoming tired, 
and perceiving that her pursuers were gaining upon 
her, suddenly backed up against a stone wall, and 
stood at bay. 

Towzer barked madly at her heels, and the 
gobbler, standing provokingly just under her nose, 




gobbled out a long tirade against her evil behavior, 
but Buttercup had a mind above such petty annoy- 
ances : she calmly disregarded her inferior pur- 
suers, and fixed her eyes, with a " touch-me-if-you- 
dare " expression, upon Enoch. 

Enoch walked up to her, with stern determina- 
tion, and — threw the rope over her head — almost, 
but not quite ! It caught upon one of her horns, 
and, with a playful gesture, Buttercup tossed it 
over the stone wall, into the field. 

Enoch climbed over after it, urged on by a 
derisive shout from Tony, and the somewhat irri- 
tating announcement that "dis niggar was ready to 
bet on de cow ! " 

Having got Enoch out of the way. Buttercup 
flung out her heels at Towzer and sent him off, 
limping and yelping with pain ; then she made a 
swoop upon the gobbler with her horns, and that 
valiant warrior retired in great confusion ; and then 
she took to the road again, at an easy, swinging gait, 
as if it were really not worth the while to hurry. 
But when Enoch approached her again, she turned 
suddenly, and, taking him by surprise, tossed him 
over the fence with her horns, almost as lightly 
and airily as she had tossed the rope ! 

She looked over the fence after him with a 
deprecating air that was as much as to say, " I 
did n't want to, but you forced me to it ! " and then 
she walked quietly along, feeding on the road-side 

Enoch was stunned for a moment, but when he 
recovered, he was astonished to find that his bones 
were all whole ; he had suffered only a few slight 

The whole family rushed to the spot ; even Tony 
descended from his secure perch. 

" It 's no use to cotch her ! " said Tony, when 
they had all assured themselves that Enoch was 
unharmed. " De doctor wont hab a animile dat's 
possessed ob de debble ! " 

This brought back the thought of the tax-bill, 
at which Enoch's heart sank. 

" She never behaved like this before," he said. 
" I am sure if she could once be got into the 
doctor's barn she would be peaceable enough." 

" 'Pears like it aint so drefHe easy to done fotch 
her dar! But I '11 send Patsy up. Patsy can 
cotch a streak ob chain lightnin'." 

So it was decided that Patsy, the doctor's man- 
servant, should come up the next morning, giving 
Buttercup time to sober down. 

They all went their several ways to the day's 
work, leaving Buttercup to her own devices. 

Enoch and Priscilla looked discouraged and 
anxious, and Abijah cheerfully reminded them that 
he had foretold that they should all be put in jail 
for debt. 

Nehemiah and Nancy were deputed to shell corn 
for planting, and they perched themselves on the 
meal-chest in the barn, with a bushel-basket con- 
taining the corn between them. As the basket 
overtopped their heads, it was inconvenient and a 
barrier to sociability, but no better way occurred 
to them, and as Nehemiah was buried in thought, 
and Nancy always respected his silence, it did not 
matter as far as sociability was concerned. 

But, after a while, Nancy heard a voice on the 
other side of the basket say : 

" Do you remember whether it says that the cow 
did consider, Nancy ? Don't you know, — 

" 'There was a piper and he had a cow, 
And he had no hay to give her. 
So he took out his pipes, and played her a tune — 
Consider, old cow, consider!'" 

" I don't think it says any more," said Nancy. 
"But of course she considered; she knew he was 
poor, and picked up anything she could find to 

"Well, I 've been thinking that we had better 
play Buttercup a tune, and ask her to consider 
and go with the doctor's man, so that we can pay 
the tax-bill." 

"That 's a beautiful plan! Let 's do it, right 
off! " said Nancy, dropping her apron, and letting 
the corn in it roll all over the floor in her excite- 
ment. " Only, don't you think, Nehemiah, that 
truly cows are different, some way, from the cows 
that Mother Goose knew about? They don't 
seem to have so much sense. They don't under- 
stand what you say to them." 

" They do ! They only pretend not to. They 
are deep," said Nehemiah. "And people don't 
know how to manage them. If they would have 
let me manage Buttercup, I could have made her 
go with Tony, just as easy ! " , 

"Could you, really?" said Nancy, looking at 
him admiringly. " But you '11 let me help, when 
you play her the tune, wont you ?" 

"Yes, if you don't make a noise, and let every- 
body know beforehand, just like a girl. You 
get down and pick up the corn you spilled, and 
all that I 've dropped, too, and then 1 '11 tell you 
how 1 'm going to do it." 

Nancy got down obediently, and picked up every 
kernel faithfully, never minding that she got splin- 
ters into her fat little hands, and made her chubby 
little knees ache. 

" We can't do it when anybody 's near," said 
Nehemiah, after Nancy had climbed up on to the 
meal-chest again, "because they will make fun 
of us, and say it is n't of any use. They don't 
know that cows can understand. But we 'II get 
up early in the morning, before Jim goes to milk- 

1 883.] 

THK COW 111 AT CONSI |)i: Ri: 1). 


ing, even, and I '11 take the old accordion, and you 
take a comb, and we 'II go right into Buttercup's 
stall, and we 'II play a ' Pinafore' tune to her — 
' Little Buttercup ' will be just the thing, because 
it 's her name, you know. And then we '11 tell 
her all about the bill. And, after that, we '11 play 
a psalm tune — "Old Hundred,' or 'Lord, dismiss 
us with Thy blessing.' That will kind of make 
her feel solemn, and think about being good. 
.And then you see if she don't go with Patsy, when 
he comes ! And then the tax-bill will be paid, 
and we '11 have new shoes awful often, and we 
wont eat anything but jam and pound-cake, and 
we 'II have a velocipede, and a balloon as big as 
this barn ! " 

The prospect of such happiness was too much 
for Nancy's composure, and again the corn was 
spilt, and this time they both had to get down 
and pick it up, for Abijah came and scolded them 
for being so slow, because Enoch already wanted 
the corn to plant. 

The next morning, before it was light, Nancy 
heard a low whistle just outside her door. She 
slipped out of bed without waiting to get her 
eyes open, and very softly, so as not to wake Pris- 
cilla, and dressed herself hurriedly. Xehemiah 
was waiting for her at the back door, with a lan- 
tern. It seemed very queer to be up and out-of- 
doors while it was still dark, but there was some- 
thing delightfully exciting about it. 

Towzer suddenly roused from sleep, took them 
for burglars, and barked like mad. He seemed 
to recognize them after carefully smelling at their 
heels, but it struck him as such an unusual pro- 
ceeding for them to go into the barn at that hour, 
that he insisted upon accompanying them. 

That irrepressible rooster got up and crowed, 
but otherwise it was perfectly still in the barn. 
Buttercup was awake, chewing her cud and look- 
ing rather sad and grave, as if she were meditating 
upon her bad behavior. 

Nehemiah hung the lantern on a nail, and then 
walked boldly into the stall, followed by Nancy, 
who was a little afraid of Buttercup, but would not 
hesitate to follow Nehemiah anywhere. 

Nehemiah struck up " Little Buttercup" on the 
accordion, and Nancy chimed in on the comb. 
The accordion was old and wheezy, and Nehe- 
miah was not a skillful performer, and a comb is 
not a pleasing musical instrument at the best; the 
echoes in the old barn must have been astonished 
when they were called upon to respond to such 
sounds as those ! Towzer and the rooster both 
assisted, to the utmost extent of their powers. 

Buttercup looked over her shoulder at them, 
with a puzzled expression, and she whisked her tail 
a little, but gave no other sign of emotion. 

" Now, you go on, and play easy, while I tell 
her all about it," said Nehemiah, at length. 

He put his lips very near Buttercup's ear. 

" We have played you a tune. Buttercup," he 
said, "and now we want you to consider! You 
were a very bad cow, yesterday, and made your 
friends very unhappy, but perhaps you did n't 
stop to think, and did n't know how much differ- 
ence it made. Before we got the farm, we were 
awful poor, and we shall be awful poor if we lose 
it, besides having to go to jail, Abijah says; and 
we can't pay the tax-bill unless you let yourself 
be sold to Doctor Douglas. Cows can be very good 
and smart if they try. And perhaps, when we are 
rich, we 'II buy you back." 

Buttercup kept very cpiiet, and looked as if she 
were listening to every word. 

" Now you consider and go with Patsy, without 
making a fuss ! " said Nehemiah, in conclusion. 

"We 'II have 'Old Hundred ' and the ' Do.xol- 
ogy,' and then we '11 go," he said to Nancy. "And 
you see if she is n't a different cow from she 
was yesterday ! " 

They got into the house and hung the lantern in 
its place, just as Jim came stumbling sleepily down- 
stairs to milking. 

Nancy went back to bed, and dreamed that 
Buttercup, in a long trained dress and with hair 
done up behind, was dancing a polka with the tax- 
collector, while the big gobbler played for them on 
a comb. 

It was c[uite disappointing to find that it only 
a dream. 

Nehemiah and Nancy were on hand when Patsy 
arrived. He was a big, good-natured Irishman, 
who announced himself as a remarkable cow-com- 
pellcr, and declared that there was " not a baste 
in the wurruld that contrairy that she could get the 
betther iv him ! " 

He had provided himself with a stout stick, and 
with this in one hand and a rope in the other, he 
approached Buttercup in the boldest manner, 
while Nehemiah and Nancy held their breaths and 

But, alas for the remarkable cow-compeller ! 
Buttercup made such a furious lunge at him that 
he was fain to take to his heels. And alas for 
Nehemiah and Nancy, whose tunes and appeals 
now seemed to have been thrown away ! Yester- 
day's pranks were but mild and tame compared 
with those that Buttercup played to-day. She 
kicked and she pranced, she capered and she 
danced, until everything that had legs was glad to 
run away, and leave her in possession of the field. 
And Patsy was forced to go home, acknowledging 
that one " baste had got the betther iv him ! " 

Nehemiah and Nancy looked at each other in 




silent surprise and disappointment. Then Nehe- 
miah approached as near Buttercup as he dared, in 
the excited state of her feehngs,' and reproached 
her in strong terms for faihng to consider, after the 
"beautiful music" with which they had favored 
her. Buttercup turned her head, and looked 
steadily at him, and uttered a long-drawn-out low. 
It was very different from her ordinary ''moo-oo- 
00." It seemed to consist of two syllables, and 
she looked as if it meant a great deal. 

" Nehemiah, it sounds just as if she were trying 
to say something," said Nancy. " What divs she 
mean ? " 

"She says, 'But-ter!' 'but-ter!'" said Nehe- 
miah. " But I don't think she means anything. 
Cows are silly things, anyway ! " 

" Perhaps she means for us to make butter out 
of her milk, so that she can do us some good, even 
if she wont be sold." 

"We might," said Nehemiah. "There 's a 
churn in the pantry, and you only have to turn a 
crank. Priscilla said we might as well sell the 
milk, but I guess she '11 let us try, just for the 
fun ! " 

Nancy skipped into the house, delighted that 
she had thought of something that Nehemiah said 
it would be fun to do — though, to be sure, it really 
was Buttercup's suggestion. She was so excited 
about it that before she stopped to think she had 
told Priscilla and Enoch all about their playing 
Buttercup a tune, and asking her to "consider," 
and that Buttercup- had kept saying, "But-ter! 
but-ter ! " And though they laughed, and made 
a great deal of fun of it, Priscilla gave them some 
cream that she had saved from Buttercup's milk, 
and told them they might churn it, if they liked. 

She had never thought of doing such a thing. 
Butter was a luxury to them, and they could very 
well do without it, and she had not thought of 
making it to sell, for they had only two cows. 

Nehemiah and Nancy worked with a w'ill. It 
w-as n't altogether fun; the butter was so long in 
coming, and their arms ached, and Nancy would 
open the churn every three minutes, to see if there 
was some butter. At last, little thick yellowish 
specks appeared in the cream, and, not long after 
that, the crank became very hard to turn, and lo 
and behold ! there was a mass of yellow butter 
inside. It was the sweetest, and the richest, and 
the goldenest butter that ever was tasted or seen ! 

Priscilla made it into balls, and Enoch bought a 
stamp, — a beautiful pattern, with strawberry leaves 
and fruit, — and, when Priscilla had stamped it, 
they sent some balls down to Doctor Douglas. He 
had been very kind to their father when he was ill, 
and they were delighted to have something to send 

The doctor came up to the Crow's-nest the very 
next day, to say that he had never tasted such de- 
licious butter, and that if they would keep him sup- 
plied with it, he would be willing to pay a very high 
price for it. And he said if that was the kind of 
butter they could make, he thought they had better 
keep a dairy farm, and nothing else ; very few of 
the farmers in the neighborhood made butter, and 
there was a great demand for it in the town ; and he 
thought their land was better adapted for dairy- 
farming than for anything else. 

He lent them the money to pay their tax-bill, and 
said they need not pay him until they began to get 
some profit from their farm, and then what did he 
do but buy them another cow, which they need 
not pay for until they were able. 

And Priscilla, and Nehemiah, and Nancy made 
butter — and I might say that httlc Absalom 
helped, for he drank the buttermilk! — ^ while the 
others worked on the farm. The butter brought 
very good prices, but they made the butter from 
Buttercup's milk by itself, and that butter had 
such a reputation that it found its way into the 
city market; it was what the dealers called "gilt- 
edged" butter, and commanded a fabulous price. 

And now that Buttercup's calf has grown to 
cowhood, and gives milk, too, you may see in the 
window of a large city store this sign — "Butter 
from Crow's-nest Dairy." 

And the Crows would not begin to change places 
with any Rothschild of them all ! 

And whene\'er they talk about the wonderful 
good fortune that their dairy has brought them, 
and say, "What should we have done if we had 
sold Buttercup ? " Nehemiah and Nancy look at 
each other. They don't like to say anything, be- 
cause they have been laughed at so much, and, be- 
sides, they are older, now, and would not think of 
getting up at four o'clock in the morning to play 
tunes to a cow; but sometimes Nancy does whisper: 

"They may laugh as much as they please, but I 
shall always believe that dear old Buttercup tiiii 

There was once on a time a little boy, 
And a small, greedy boy was he ; 

His mother gave him two plums and a pear. 
And he hurriedly ate all three. 

But just as he finished the very last, 

He grew very gloomy and glum ; 
And muttered, " I think she could just as well 

Ha\e made it two pears and a plum." 






Chapter \11. 

i\ the woods at chancellorsville. 

It is no easy matter to describe a long day's 
march to one who knows nothing of the hardships 
of a soldier's hfe. That a body of troops marched 
some twenty-five or thirty miles on a certain day 

soldier's powers of endurance to the very utmost. 
He has, in the first place, a heavy load to carry. 
His knapsack, haversack, canteen, ammunition, 
musket, and accoutermcnts are by no means a light 
matter at the outset, and they grow heavier with 
every additional mile of the road. So true is this 
that, in deciding what of our clothing to take 
along on a march and what to throw away, we soon 

".\ iLKGJio:; \VKJTi:.C LIU.N TJIE P0.MMEL UK HIi S.VDDLli .\.N uliDEK FOR .\.N .\.MeLL-\NLE- 

from daylight to midnight, from one point to 
another, seems, to one who has not tried it, no 
great undertaking. Thirty miles ! It is but an 
hour's ride in the cars. Nor can the single pedes- 
trian, who easily covers greater distances in less 
time, have a full idea of the fatigue of a soldier as 
he throws himself down by the road-side, utterly 
exhausted, when the day's inarch is done. 

Unnumbered circumstances combine to test the 

Vol. IX. — 16. * Copyright, i£8i, by Harr>- M 

learned to be guided by the soldiers' proverb that 
" what weighs an ounce in the morning weighs a 
pound at night." Then, too, the soldier is not 
master of his own movements, as is the solitary 
pedestrian ; for he can not pick his way, nor hus- 
band his strength by resting when and where he 
may choose. He marches generally "four abreast" 
— sometimes at double-quick, when the rear is clos- 
ing up, and again at a most jjrovokingly slow pace 

Kicffcr. .Ml righLs resen-ed. 




when there is some impediment on the road ahead. 
Often his canteen is empty, no water is to be had, 
and he marches on in a cloud of dust, witli parched 
throat and lips and trembling limbs — on and on, 
and still on, until about the midnight hour, at the 
final " Halt ! " he drops to the ground like a shot, 
feverish, irritable, exhausted in body and soul. 

It would seem a shame and a folly to take troops 
thus utterly worn out, and hurl them at midnight 
into a battle the issue of which hangs trembling in 
the balance. Yet this was what they came pretty 
near doing with us, after our long march from four 
miles below Fredericksburg to the extreme right 
of the army at Chancellorsville. 

I have a very indistinct and cloudy recollection 
of that march. I can quite well remember the 
beginning of it, when at the early dawn the enemy's 
batteries drove us, under a sharp shcU-fire, at a 
lively double-quick for the first four miles. And I 
can well recall how, at midnight, we threw our- 
selves under the great oak-trees near Chancellors- 
ville, and were in a moment sound asleep amid the 
heaven-rending thunder of the guns, the unbroken 
roll of the musketry, and the shouts and yells of 
the lines charging each other a quarter of a mile to 
our front. But when I attempt to call up the inci- 
dents that happened by the way, I am utterly at a 
loss. My memory has retained nothing but a con- 
fused mass of images ; here a farm house, there a 
mill ; a company of stragglers driven on by the 
guard ; a Surgeon writing upon the pommel of 
his saddle an order for an ambulance to carry a 
poor exhausted and but half-conscious fellow ; an 
officer's Staff or an Orderly dashing by at a lively 
trot ; a halt for coffee in the edge of a wood ; fill- 
ing a canteen (oh, blessed memory !) at some 
meadow stream or road-side spring; and on, and 
on, and on, amid the rattle of bayonet-scabbards 
and tin cups, mopping our faces and crunching our 
hard-tack as we went ; — this, and such as this, is 
all that will now come to mind. 

But of events toward night-fall the images are 
clearer and more sharply defined. The sun is set- 
ting, large, red, and fiery-looking, in a dull haze 
that hangs over the thickly wooded horizon. We 
are nearing the ford where we are to cross the 
Rappahannock. We come to some hill-top, and — 
hark ! A deep, ominous growl comes, from how 
many miles away we know not; now another; 
then another ! 

On, Boys, on ! There is work doing ahead, 
and terrible work it is, for two great armies are at 
each other's throat, and the battle is raging fierce 
and high, although we know nothing as yet of how 
it may be going. 

On, — on, — on ! 

Turning sharp to the left, we enter the approach 

to the ford, the road leading, in places, through a 
deep cut, — great high pine-trees on either side of 
the road shutting out the little remaining light of 
day. Here we find the first actual evidences of 
the great battle that is raging ahead : long lines of 
ambulances filled with wounded ; yonder a poor 
fellow with a bandaged head, sitting by a spring ; 
and a few steps away another, his agonies now 
over ; here, two men, one with his arm in a sling 
supporting the other, who has turned his musket 
into a crutch ; then more ambulances, and more 
wounded in increasing numbers; Orderlies dashing 
by at full gallop, while the thunder of the guns 
grows louder and closer as we step on the pontoons 
and so cross the gleaming river. 

" Colonel, your men have had a hard day's 
march; you will now let them rest for the night." 

It is a Staff-officer whom I hear delivering this 
order to our Colonel, and a sweeter message 1 think 
I never heard. We cast wistful e)'es at the half- 
extinguished camp-fires of some regiment that has 
been making coffee by the road-side, and has just 
moved off, and we think them a godsend, as the 
order is given to "stack arms." But before we 
have time even to unsling knapsacks, the order 
comes, "Fall in ! " and away we go again, steadily 
plodding on through that seemingly endless forest 
of scrub-pine and oak, straight in the direction of 
the booming guns ahead. 

Why whippoorwills were made I do not know ; 
douljtless for some wise piu'pose ; but never before 
that night did I know they had been made in such 
countless numbers. Every tree and bush was full 
of them, it seemed. There were thousands of 
them, there were tens of thousands of them, there 
were millions of them ! And every one whistling, 
as fast as it could, " Who-hoo-hoo ! Who-hoo- 
hoo ! Who-hoo-hoo ! " Had they been vultures or 
turkey-buzzards, — vast flocks of which followed the 
army wherever we went, almost darkening the sky 
at times, and always suggesting unpleasant reflec- 
tions. — they could not have appeared more exe- 
crable to me. Many were the imprecations hurled 
at them as we plodded on under the light of. the 
great red moon, now above the tree-tops, while 
still from every bush came that monotonous half- 
screech, half-groan ," Who-hoo-hoo! Who-hoo-hoo! " 

But, O miserable birds of ill-omen, there is 
something more ominous in the air than your lugu- 
brious night-song ! There is borne to our ears at 
every additional step the deepening growl of the 
cannon ahead. As the moon mounts higher, and 
we advance farther along the level forest-land, we 
hear still more distinctly anothersound — the long, 
unbroken roll of musketry. 

Forward now. at double-quick, until we are on 
the outskirts of the battle-field. 




Shells are crashing through the tall tree-tops 

"Hall! Load at will! Load!" 

In the moonlight that falls shimmering across the 
road, as 1 look back over the column, I see the 
bright steel flashing, while the jingle of the ram- 
rods makes music that stirs the blood to a quicker 
pulse. A well-known voice calls me down the line, 
and Andy whispers a few hurried words into my 
ear, while ho grasps my hand, hard. But we are 
off at a quick step. A sharp turn to the left, and 
— hark! The firing has ceased, and they are 
" charging " down there ! That peculiar, and 
afterward well-known, " Yi ! Yi ! Yi ! " indicates a 
struggle for which we are making straight and 

At this moment comes the order: "Colonel, 
you will countermarch your men, and take position 
down tliis road on the right. Follow me ! " The 
staff-officer leads us half a mile to the right, where, 
sinking down utterly exhausted, we are soon sound 

Of the next day or two 1 have but an indistinct 
recollection. What with the fatigue and excite- 
ment, the hunger and thirst, of the last few days, 
a high fever set in for me. I became half-delirious, 
and lay under a great oak-tree, too weak to walk, 
my head nearly splitting with the noise of a bat- 
tery of steel cannon in position fifty yards to the left 
of me. That battery's beautiful but terrible drill I 
could plainly see. My own corps was put on re- 
serve : the men built strong breast-works, but took 
no part in the battle, excepting some little skir- 
mishing. Our day was yet to come. 

One evening, — it was the last evening we spent 
in the woods at Chancellorsville, — a Sergeant of my 
company came back to where we were, with orders 
for me to hunt up and bring an ambulance for 
one of the Lieutenants who was sick. 

" You see, Harry, there are rumors that we are 
going to retreat to-night, for the heavy rains have 
so swollen the Rappahannock that our pontoons 
are in danger of being carried away, and it appears 
that, for some reason or other, wc 've got to get 
out of this at once under cover of night, and Lieu- 
tenant can't stand the march. So you will go for 
an ambulance. You '11 find the ambulance park 
about two miles from here. You '11 take through 
the woods in that direction," — pointing with his 
finger, — "until you come to a path; follow the 
path till you come to a road ; follow the road, taking 
to the right and straight ahead, till you come to 
the ambulances." 

Although it was raining hard at the time, and 
had been raining for several days, and though I 
myself was probably as sick as the Lieutenant, and 
felt positive that the troops would have started in 

retreat before I could get back, yet it was my duty 
to obey, and off I went. 

1 had no difficulty in finding the path ; and I 
reached the road all right. P'ording a stream, the 
corduroy bridge of which was all afloat, and walk- 
ing rapidly for a half-hour. 1 found the ambulances 
all drawn up ready to retreat. 

" We have orders to pull out from here at once, 
and can send an ambulance for no man. Your 
Lieutenant must take his chance." 

It was getting dark fast, as I started back with 
this message. I was soaked to the skin, and the 
rain was pouring down in torrents. To make bad 
worse, in the darkness I turned off from the road 
at the wrong point, missed the path and quite lost 
my way ! What was to be done ? If 1 should 
spend much time where 1 was, I was certain to be 
left behind, for I felt sure that the troops were 
moving off; and yet I feared to make for any of 
the fires I saw through the woods, for I knew the 
lines of the two armies were near each other, and I 
might, as like as not, walk over into the lines of 
the enemy. 

Collecting my poor fevered faculties, I determined 
to follow the course of a little stream I heard plash- 
ing down among the bushes to the left. By and 
by 1 fixed my eye on a certain bright camp-fire, and 
determined to make for it at all hazards, be it of 
friend or of foe. Judge of my joyful surprise when 
1 found it was burning in front of my own tent ! 

Standing about our fire trying to get warm and 
dry, our fellows were discussing the question of the 
retreat about to be made. But 1 was tired and 
sick, and wet and sleepy, and did not at all relish 
the prospect of a night march througli the woods 
in a drenching rain. So, putting on the only re- 
maining dry shirt I had left (1 had tiuo on already, 
and they were soaked through), I lay down under 
my shelter, shivering and with chattering teeth, 
but soon fell sound asleep. 

In the gray light of the morning wc were sud- 
denly awakened by a loud " Halloo there, you 
chaps! Better be digging out of this! We're 
the last line of cavalry pickets, and the Johnnies 
are on our heels ! " 

It was an easy matter for us to sling on our 
knapsacks and rush after the cavalry-man, until 
a double-quick of two miles brought us within the 
rear line of defenses thrown up to cover the retreat. 


the first day .\t gettysburg. 

" Harry, I 'm getting tired of this thing. It 's 
becoming monotonous, this thing of being roused 




every morning at four, with orders to pack up and 
be ready to march at a moment's notice, and then 
lying around here all day in the sun. I don't 
believe we are going anywhere, anyhow." 

We had been encamped for six weeks, of which 
I need give no special account, only saying that in 
those " summer quarters," as they might be called, 
we went on with our endless drilling, and were 
baked and browned, and thoroughly hardened to 
the life of a soldier in the field. 

The monotony of which Andy complained did 
not end that day, nor the next. For six successive 
days we were regularly roused at four o'clock in 
the morning, with orders to "pack up and be 
ready to move immediately ! " — only to unpack as 
regularly about the middle of the afternoon. W'e 
could hear our batteries pounding away in the 
direction of Fredericksburg, but we did not then 
know that we were being held well in hand till the 
enemy's plan had developed itself into the great 
march into Pennsylvania, and we w-ere let off in hot 

So at last, on the I2th of June, 1S63, we started, 
at five o'clock in the morning, in a north-westerly 
direction. My journal says: "Very warm, dust 
plenty, water scarce, marching very hard. Halted 
at dugk at an excellent spring, and lay down for 
the night with aching limbs and blistered feet." 

1 pass over the six days' continuous marching that 
followed, steadily on toward the north, pausing only 
to relate several incidents that happened by the 

On the 14th we were racing with the enemy — we 
being pushed on to the utmost of human endur- 
ance — for the possession of the defenses of Wash- 
ington. From five o'clock of that morning till three 
the following morning, — that is to say, from day- 
light to daylight, — we were hurried along under a 
burning June sun, with no halt longer than suffi- 
cient to recruit our strength with a hasty cup of 
coffee at noon and nightfall. Nine, ten, eleven, 
twelve o'clock at night, and still on ! It was almost 
more than flesh could endure. Men fell out of line 
in the darkness by the score, and tumbled over by 
the road-side, asleep almost before they touched the 

1 remember how a great tall fellow in our com- 
pany made us laugh along somewhere about one 
o'clock that morning — " Pointer," we called him ; 
an excellent soldier, who afterivard fell at his post 
at Spottsylvania. He had been trudging on in 
sullen silence for hours, when all of a sudden, 
coming to a halt, he brought his piece to " order 
arms " on the hard road with a ring, took off his 
cap, and in language far more forcible than ele- 
gant, began forthwith to denounce both parties to 
the war, "from A to Izzard," in all branches of 

the service, civil and military, army and navy, 
artillery, infantry, and cavalry, and demanded that 
the enemy should come on in full force here and 
now, " and I '11 fight them all single-handed and 
alone, the whole pack of 'em ! I 'm tired of this 
everlasting marching, and I want to fight ! " 

"Three cheers for Pointer! " cried some one, and 
we laughed heartily as we toiled doggedly on to 
Manassas, which we reached at three o'clock A. M., 
June 15th. I can assure you we lost no time in 
stretching ourselves at full length in the tall sum- 
mer grass. 

" James McFadden, report to the Adjutant for 
camp guard. James McFadden ! Anybody know 
where Jim McFadden is ? " 

Now, that was rather hard, was n't it? To march 
from daylight to daylight, and lie down for a rest 
of probably two hours before starting again, and 
then to be called up to stand throughout those 
precious two hours, on guard duty ! 

I knew ver%' well where McFadden was, for was 
n't he lying right beside me in the grass ? But 
just then 1 was in no humor to tell. The camp 
might well go without a guard that night, or the 
Orderly might find McFadden in the dark if he 

But the rules were strict, and the punishment 
was severe, and poor McFadden, bursting into 
tears of vexation, answered like a man: "Here 
I am. Orderly; I '11 go." It was hard. 

Two weeks later, both McFadden and the Or- 
derly went where there is neither marching nor 
standing guard any more. 

Now comes a long rest of a week in the woods 
near the Potomac, for we have been marching par- 
allel with the enemy, and dare not go too fast, lest 
by some sudden and dexterous move in the game 
he should sweep past our rear in upon the defenses 
of Washington. And after this sweet refreshment, 
we cross the Potomac on pontoons, and march, per- 
haps with a lighter step, since we are nearing home, 
through the smiling fields and pleasant villages of 
" Maryland, my Maryland." At Poolesville, a lit- 
tle town on the north bank of the Potomac, we 
smile as we see a lot of children come trooping out 
of the village school, — a merry sight to men who 
have seen neither woman nor child these six 
months and more, and a touching sight to many 
a man in the ranks as he thinks of his little flaxen- 
heads in the far-away home. Aye, think of them 
now and think of them full tenderly, for many a 
man of you shall never have child climb on his 
knee any more ! 

As we enter one of these pleasant little Maryland 
villages, we find on the outskirts of the place two 
young ladies and two young gentlemen waving the 
good old flag as we pass, and singing " Rally round 



the Flag, Boys." The excitement along the line is 
intense. Cheer on cheer is given by regiment after 
regiment iis we pass along, we drummer-boys beat- 
ing, at the Colonel's express orders, the old tune, 
"The Girl I left behind me," as a sort of re- 
sponse. Soon we are in among the hills again, and 
still the cheering goes on in the far distance to the 

Only ten days later we passed through the same 
village again, and were met by the same young ladies 
and gentlemen, waving the same flag and singing 
the same song. But though we tried twice, and tried 
hard, we could not cheer at all, for there 's a differ- 
ence between five hundred men and one hundred 
— ^is there not ? So, that second time, we 
drooped our tattered flags, and raised oui 
caps in silent and sorrowful salute. 

'■ Colonel, close up your men and move 
on as rapidly as possible." 

It is the morning of July 1st, and we 
are crossing a bridge over a stream, as the 
Staff-officer, having delivered this order for 
us, dashes down the line to hurry up the 
regiments in the rear. We get uji on a 
high range of hills, from which we have a 
magnificent view. The day is bright, the 
air is fresh and sweet, and the sun shines 
out of an almost cloudless sky, and 
as we gaze away off yonder down the 
valley to the left — look! Do you 
see that ? A puff of smoke in mid- /?- 
air ! Very small and miles away, as ^^ 
the faint and long-coming " boom" 
of the exploding shell indicates, but 
it means that something is going 
on yonder, away down in the valley, in 
which, perhaps, we may have a hand 
before the day is done. See! Another — 
and another ! Faint and far away comes 
the long-delayed "boom!" "boom!" 
echoing over the hills, ;is the .Staff-ofticer 
dashes along the lines with orders to 
" double-quick ! double-quick ! " 

Four miles of almost constant double- 
quicking is no light work at any time, 
least of all on such a day as this memorable Ijrst 
day of July, for it is hot and dusty. But we are 
in our own State now, boys, and the battle is 
opening ahead, and it is no time to save breath. 
On we go, now up a hill, now over a stream, 
now checking our headlong rush for a moment, 
for we mils/ breathe a little. But the word comes 
along the line again, "double-quick," and we set- 
tle down to it with right good-will, while the can- 
non ahead seem to be getting nearer and louder. 
There 's little said in the ranks, for there is little 

breath for talking, though every man is busy 
enough thinking. We all feel, somehow, that 
our day has come at last — as indeed it has I 

We get in through the outskirts of Gettysburg, 
tearing down the fences of the town lots and outly- 
ing gardens as we go ; we pass a battery of brass 
guns drawn up beside the Seminary, some hundred 
yards in front of which building, in a strip of 
meadow-land, we halt, and rapidly form the line 
of battle. 

" General, 
shall we 
unsling / 


knapsacks ? " shouts some one 
down the line to our Division-gen- 
eral, as he is dashing by. 

" Never mind the knapsacks, 
boys ; it 's the State now ! " 

And he plunges his spurs up to the rowels in the 
flanks of his horse, as he takes the stake-and-ridcr 
fence at a leap and is away. 

" Unfurl the flags. Color-guard ! " 

"Now, forward, double " 

" Colonel, we 're not loaded yet ! " 




A laugh runs along the line as, at the command 
"Load at will — load!" the ramrods make their 
merry music, and at once the word is given, " For- 
ward, double-quick ! " and the line sweeps up that 
rismg ground with banners gayly flying, and cheers 
that rend the air — a sight, once seen, never to be 

I suppose the boy-readers of St. Nicholas won- 
der what a drummer-boy does in time of battle. 
Perhaps they have the same idea 1 used to have, 
namely, that it is the duty of a drummer-boy to 
beat his drum all the time the battle rages, to 
encourage the men or drown the groans of the 
wounded ! But if they will reflect a moment, they 
will see that amid the confusion and noise of battle, 
there is little chance of martial music being either 
heard or heeded. Our Colonel had long ago given 
us our orders : 

" You drummer-boys, in time of an engagement, 
are to lay aside your drums and take stretchers and 
help off the wounded. I expect you to do this, and 
you arc to remember that, in doing it, you are just 
as much helping the battle on as if you were fight- 
ing with guns in your hands." 

And so we sit down there on our drums, and 
watch the line going in with cheers. Forthwith we 
get a smart shelling, for there is evidently some- 
body else watching that advancing line besides 
ourselves ; but they have elevated their guns a little 
too much, so that every shell passes quite over the 
line and plows up the meadow-sod about us in all 

Laying aside our knapsacks, we go to the Semin- 
ary, now rapidly filling with the wounded. This 
the enemy surely can not know, or they would n't 
shell the building so hard! We get stretchers at 
the ambulances, and start out for the line of battle. 
We can just see our regimental colors waving in 
the orchard, near a log-house about three hundred 
yards ahead, and we start out for it — 1 on the lead 
and Daney behind. 

There is one of our batteries drawn up to our left 
a short distance as we run. It is engaged in a 
sharp artillery duel with one of the enemy's, which 
we can not see, although we can hear it plainly 
enough, and straight between the two our road 
lies. So, up we go, Daney and I, at a lively trot, 
dodging the shells as best we can, till, panting for 
breath, we set down our stretcher under an apple- 
tree in the orchard, in which, under the brow of 
the hill, we find the regiment lying, one or two 
companies being out on the skirmish line ahead. 

I count six men of Company C lying yonder in 
the grass— ^killed, they say, by a single shell. Andy 
calls me away for a moment to look after some 
poor fellow whose arm is off at the shoulder ; and it 
was just time I got away, too, for immediately a 

shell plunges into the sod where I had been sitting, 
tearing my stretcher to tatters and plowing up a 
great furrow under one of the boys who had been 
sitting immediately behind me, and who thinks 
" That was rather close shaving, was n't it, now?" 
The bullets whistling overhead make pretty music 
with their ever-varying "z-i-p! z-i-p ! " and we 
could imagine them so many bees, only they have 
such a terribly sharp sting. They tell me, too, of 
a certain cavalry-man (Dennis Buckley, Sixth 
Michigan cavalry it was, as I afterward learned — 
let history preserve the brave boy's name) who, 
having had his horse shot under him, and seeing 
that first-named shell explode in Company C with 
such disaster, exclaimed, "That is the company 
for me ! " He remained with the regiment all day, 
doing good service with his carbine, and he escaped 
unhurt ! 

'"Here they come, boys; we '11 have to go in 
at them on a charge, I guess ! " Creeping close 
around the corner of the log-house, I can see the 
long lines of gray sweeping up in fine style over 
the fields ; but I feel the Colonel's hand on my 

" Keep back, my bo\ : no use exposing yourself 
in that way." 

As 1 get back behind the house and look around, 
an old man is seen approaching our line through 
the orchard in the rear. He is dressed in a long, 
blue, swallow-tailed coat and high silk hat, and 
coming up to the Colonel, he asks : 

" Would you let an old chap like me have a 
chance to fight in your ranks, Colonel ?" 

" Can you shoot ? " inquires the Colonel. 

" Oh yes, I can shoot, I reckon," says he. 

" But where are your cartridges ? " 

" I 've got 'em here, sir," says the old man, 
slapping his hand on his pantaloons pocket. 

And so "old John Burns," of whom every 
school-boy has heard, takes his place in the line 
and loads and fires with the best of them, and is 
left wounded and insensible on the field when the 
day is done. 

Reclining there under a tree while the skirmish- 
ing is going on in front and the shells are tearing 
up the sod around us, I observe how evidendy 
hard pressed is that battery yonder in the edge of 
the wood, about fifty yards to our right. The 
enemy's batteries have excellent range on the poor 
fellows ser\'ing it. And when the smoke lifts or 
rolls away in great clouds for a moment, we can 
see the men running, and ramming, and sighting, 
and firing, and swabbing, and changing position 
every few minutes to throw the enemy's guns out 
of range a little. The men are becoming terribly 
few, but nevertheless their gtms, with a rapidity 
that seems unabated, belch forth great clouds of 




smoke and send the shells shrieking over the 

Meanwhile, events occur whicli give us somc- 
tliing more to think of than mere skirmishing and 
shelling. Our beloved Hrigadier-general, stepping 
out a moment to reconnoiter the enemy's position 
and mo\'e:nents, is seen b\' some sharp-shooter off 
in a tree, and is carried severely wounded into the 
barn. Our Colonel assumes command of the 
brigade. Our regiment facing westward, while 
the line on our right faces to the north, is obser\'ed 
to be exposed to an enfilading fire from the enemy's 
guns, .is well as from the long line of gray now 
appearing in full sight on our right. So our regi- 
ment must form in hne and change front forward, 
in order to come in line with the other regiments. 
Accomplished swiftly, this new movement Ijrings 
our line at once face to face with the enemy's, 
which advances to within fifty yards, and exchanges 
a few volleys, but is soon checked and staggered 
by our fire. 

Yet now, see ! Away to our left, and conse- 
quently on our flank, a new line appears, rapidly 
advancing out of the woods a half-mile away, and 
there must be some quick and sharp work done 
now. Boys, or, between the old foes in front and the 
new ones on our flank, we shall be annihilated. 
To clear us of these old assailants in front before 
the new line can sweep down on our flank, our 
brave Colonel, in a ringing command, orders a 
charge along the whole line. Then, before the 
gleaming and bristling bayonets of our "Buck- 
tail " brigade, as it yells and cheers, sweeping 
resistlessly o\er the field, the enemy gives way and 
flies in confusion. But there is little time to watch 
them fly, for that new line on our left is approach- 
ing at a rapid pace ; and, with shells falling thick 
and fast into our ranks, and men dropping every- 
where, our regiment must reverse the former 
movement by " changing front to rear," and so 
resume its original position facing westward, for the 
enemy's new line is approaching from that direc- 
tion, and if it takes us in flank, we are done for. 

To "change front to rear" is a difficult move- 
ment to execute even on drill, much more so under 
severe fire ; but it is executed now steadily and 
without confusion, yet not a minute too soon ! 
For the new line of gray is upon us in a mad tem- 
pest of lead, supported by a cruel artillery fire, 
almost before our line can steady itself to receive 
the shock. However, partially protected by a post- 
and-rail fence, we answer fiercely, and with effect so 
terrific that the enemy's line wavers, and at length 
moves off by the right flank, giving us a breathing 
space for a time. 

During this struggle, there had been many an 
exciting scene all along the line as it swayed back- 

ward and forward u\xr the field — scenes which we 
have had no time to mention yet. 

See yonder, where the colors of the regiment on 
our right — our sister regiment, the 149th — have 
been advanced a little to draw the enemy's fire, 
while our line sweeps on to the charge. There 
ensues about the flags a wild /«<%r and close hand- 
to-hand encounter. Some of the enemy have 
seized the colors and are making off with them in 
triumph, shouting victory. But a squad of our own 
regiment dashes out, and amid yells and cheers 
and smoke, you sec the battle-flags rise and fall, 
and sway hither and thither upon the surging mass, 
as if tossed on the billows of a tempest, until, 
wrenched away by strong arms,' they are borne 
back in triumph to the line of the 149th. 

See yonder, again ! Our Colonel is clapping his 
hand to his check, from which a red stream is pour- 
ing ; our Lieutenant-colonel is kneeling on the 
ground, and is having his handkerchief tied tight 
around his arm at the shoulder ; the Major and 
Adjutant both lie low, pierced with balls through the 
chest ; one Lieutenant is waving his sword to his 
men, although his leg is crushed at the knee; three 
other officers of the line are lying over there, 
motionless now forever. All over the field are 
strewn men wounded or dead, and comrades pause 
a moment in the mad rush to catch the last words 
of the dying. Incidents such as these the reader 
must imagine for himself, to fill in these swift 
sketches of how the day was won — and lost ! 

Aye, lost ! For the balls which have so far 
come mainly from our front, begin now to sing in 
from our left and right, which means that we are 
being flanked. Somehow, away off to our right, a 
half-mile or so, our line has given way and is 
already on retreat through the tow n, while our left 
is being driven in, and we ourselves may shortly be 
surrounded and crushed — and so the retreat is 

Back now along the railroad cut we go, or 
through the orchard and the narrow strip of woods 
behind it, with our dead scattered around on all 
sides, and the wounded crying piteously for help. 

" Harry ! Harry ! " It is a faint cry of a dying 
man yonder in the grass, and I mus/ see who it is. 

" Why, Willie ! Tell me where you are hurt ?" 
1 ask, kneeling down beside him, and I see the 
words come hard, for he is fast dying. 

"Here in my side, Harry. Tell — Mother — 
Mother " 

Poor fellow, he can say no more. His head falls 
back, and Willie Black is at rest forever ! 

On, now, through that strip of woods, at the other 
edge of u-hich, with my back against a stout oak, 
I stop and look at a beautiful and thrilling sight. 
Some reserves are being brought up ; infantry in 




the center, the colors flying and officers shouting ; 
cavalry on the right with sabers flashing and 
horses on a trot ; artillery on the left, with guns at 
full gallop sweeping into position to check the 
headlong pursuit — it is a grand sight and a fine 
rail}', but a vain one ; for in an hour we are swept off 
the field and are in full retreat through the town. 

Up through the streets hurries the remnant of our 
shattered corps, while the enemy is pouring into 
the town only a few squares away from us. There 
is a tempest of shrieking shells and whistling balls 

toward sunset, and throw ourselves down by the 
road in a tumult of excitement and grief, having 
lost the day through the overwhelming force of 
numbers, and yet somehow having gained it, too 
(although as yet we know it not), for the sacrifice 
of our corps has saved the position for the rest of 
the army, which has been marching all day, and 
which comes pouring in over Cemetery Ridge all 
night long. 

Aye, the position is saved — but where is our 
corps ? Well may our Division-general, who early 


about our ears. The guns of that battery by the 
woods we have dragged along, all the horses being 
disabled. The artillery-men load as we go, dou- 
ble-charging with grape and canister. 

" Make way there, men ! " is the cr)-, and the 
surging mass crowds close up on the sidewalks to 
right and left, leaving a long lane down the center 
of the street, through which the grape and canis- 
ter go rattling into the ranks of the enemy's 

And so, amid scenes which 1 have neither space 
nor power to describe, we gain Cemetery Ridge 

. (To /v 1 

in the day succeeded to the command when our 
brave Reynolds had fallen, shed tears of grief as he 
sits there on his horse and looks over the shattered 
remains of that First Army Corps, for there is but 
a handful of it left. Of the five hundred and fifty 
men that marched under our regimental, colors in 
the morning, but one hundred remain. All our 
Field and Staff officers are gone. Of some twenty 
captains and lieutenants, but one is left without a 
scratch, while of my own company only thirteen 
out of fifty-four sleep that night on Cemetery Ridge, 
under the open canopy of heaven. 

ontbutt'd. ) 





By Margaret VANDEORin. 

The Panda and the Phalanger, the Gopher and the Yak, 

Had all aj,'reed to emigrate, and to carry in a sack 

Their extra tails and claws and things — for they were not coming back. 

But first they needs must settle who should carry this said sack. 

The meeting opened with a grunt — the language of the Yak — 

"1 '11 mention it at once," said he, " 1 've a weakness of the back, 

" And a dreadful stiffness in one leg and my spinal column, and a " 

"You've described my case, sir, to a T," interrupted here the P.nnda, 

And he looked as solemn as if he thought he were all of the Propaganda. 

The Gopher cleared his throat, and said, " It would be merely sport. 

To carr>' such a load as that " The Yak was heard to snort — 

•' For any one of you, I mean; my legs are much too short!" 

The Phalanger combed out his tail — he always was so neat! 
" You know," he said, with a modest smile, and in accents low and sweet, 
" That / '«/ disabled, permanently, by this webbing on my feet ! " 

They looked at one another long. Said the Yak, " If this be so, 
I 've an amendment to propose; suppose we do not go? 
Is anv minded othenvise?" The three responded "No!" 


By Mary Mapes Dodge. 

Chapter V. 


" Oh, if gentlemen only 
knew the nature of muffins ! " 
PoorLiddy! Her trig black 
dress and jaunty muslin cap 
seemed to mock her perturbed 
feelings, as she hovered be- 
tween the kitchen and the hall 
door. Donald and Dorothy, neatly brushed,— cool 
and pink of cheek, and vcr)' crisp in the matter of 
neck-ties, — stood at one window of the supper- 
room. The flaxen-haired waitress, in a bright blue 
calico gown and white apron, watched, tray in 
hand, at the other. A small wood-fire, just lighted, 
was waking into life on the hearth. Old Nero was 
dozing upon the rug, with one eye open. And all 

— to say nothing of the muffins — were waiting for 
Mr. George, whom the D's had not seen since 
their return from the drive, half an hour before. 

When that gentleman came in he walked briskly 
to his seat, and though he did not speak, his man- 
ner seemed to say: "Everything is all right. I 
merely came in a little late. Now for supper ! " 
But Nero, rising slowly from the warm rug, slipped 
under the table, rubbed himself 5ymi)athetically 
against his master's legs, and finally settled down 
at his feet, quite contented to serve as a foot-stool 
for Donald and Dorothy, who soon were seated one 
on each side of the table, while Liddy, carefully 
settling her gown, took her pl.icc at the large tea- 

Mr. George, as Liddy soon saw to her satisfac- 
tion, did appreciate the nature of muffins. 

So did Donald and Dorothy. 

•Copyright, 1881, by Mar>' M.npes Dodge. AU right* rescncd. 




Chapter VI. 


After supper, Uncle George, Donald and Doro- 
thy went into the library, and there they found 
the soft light of a shaded lamp and another brisk 
fire — so brisk that Mr. George let down the win- 
dows at the top, and the two D's were glad to go 
and sit on the sofa at the cooler end of the spacious 

" Liddy is determined that we shall not freeze 
before the winter sets in," remarked Mr. George, 
hardly knowing how to begin the conversation. 
He was not the first good man who has found him- 
self embarrassed in the presence of frank young 
listeners waiting to hear him speak and sure to 
weigh and remember everything he might say. 

The children smiled solemnly. 

Thus began an interview which, in some respects, 
changed the lives of Donald and Dorothy. 

" Liddy is a good, faithful soul," said Uncle 
George. " She has been with us, you know, ever 
since you were babies." 

"And before, too," put in Dorry. 

" Yes, before, too," assented Mr. George. " Some 
years before." 

Nero, dreaming by the fire, growled softly, at 
which the D's, glad of a chance to partly relieve 
themselves, and feeling that the interview was 
one of grave importance, indulged in a smothered 

" And Nero, poor faithful old dog, you knew 
us!" continued Mr. George, changing to a more 
cheerful tone, while Nero's tail contentedly beat 
time to the remark (for the good creature knew well 
enough that Mr. George was speaking of him) ; 
"he was hardly a year old then, the friskiest, 
handsomest fellow you ever saw, and brave as a 

" Did he know Aunt Kate?" asked the audacious 

Donald looked frightened ; Uncle George 
coughed; and just as Dorothy, wretchedly uncom- 
fortable, made up her mind that it was too cruel for 
anything, never to be able to speak of your own 
aunty without raising a storm, Mr. George came 
out of the bright light and seated himself on the 
sofa between the D's, with an arm around each. 
Dorry, puzzled but almost happy, drew as close as 
she could, but still sat upright ; and Donald, manly 
boy that he was, felt a dignified satisfaction in his 
uncle's embrace, and met him with a frank, ques- 
tioning look. It was the work of an instant. 
Dorry's startling inquiry still sounded on the fire- 
lit air. 

"Donald," said Uncle, without replying to 

Dorry's question. " Let me see. You are now four- 
teen years old ? " 

" Fourteen and ten days, — nearly half a month 
over fourteen," said Dorothy promptly. " Are n't 
we, Donald ? I 'm so glad ! " 

Donald nodded, and Uncle placidly asked why 
she was glad. 

"Because twins can't boss — I mean domineer 
— each other. If Don was the least bit older 
than me — I — me, it would n't be half so nice as 
starting fair and square." 

Here she gave a satisfied little cough, and to her 
great surprise felt her uncle's arm immediately 

"Stop your nonsense, Dorothy," said he, almost 
sternly; " and don't interrupt us." 

" Now Uncle 's afraid again," thought Donald, 
but he felt so sorry for his sister that he said, in a 
tone of dignified respect : " Dorry did n't mean to 
be rude, Uncle." 

"No, no. Certainly not," said that very puz- 
zling individual, suddenly resuming his former 
position, and drawing the little lady toward him. 
" Where were we? Oh, yes. Fourteen years and 
ten days, is it ? " 

" Yes, sir, right to a minute," replied Donald, 

"Well, there is no hurry, I am glad to say. I 
have been thinking of late, Donald, that a little 
boarding-school experience is a good thing for a 

Dorothy started ; but she had resolved rather 
sullenly that people should wait a long while before 
they would hear another word from her. 

" Yes, sir," assented Donald, quickly. It would 
be glorious to go, he thought, and actually be a 
boarding-school boy, belonging to a crack base-ball 
club, a debating society, perhaps even a secret 
society ; to get boxes of fruit and cake from home, 
and share them with his room-mates; may be have 
a fight or two, for a fellow must hold his own, you 
know; — but then how strange it would be to live 
without Dorry ! Oh, if she only were a boy ! 

"I 'd come home on Thanksgiving and Christ- 
mas ?" asked Don, following up this last objection. 

" Oh, yes. But you 're not olT yet, my boy. 
The fact is, I did think seriously of sending you 
this autumn, and I even looked up a few good 
places. But there 's no special hurry. This 
boarding-school business has its uncomfortable side. 
It breaks up a household, and makes little sisters 
lonesome. Does n't it, Dorry?" 

Dorry could n't speak now, though she tried, and 
Mr. George considerately went on : " Besides, 
there 's another, a very good reason, why we should 
wait awhile. You are needed here just now." 

"Needed here?" thought Dorry. "I should 




say so ! " Uncle might as well have remarked that 
the sunshine, or the sky, or the air was needed 
here as to say that Don was needed. A bijj tear 
gathered under her lashes — " Besides, she was no 
more his little sister than he was her little brother. 
They were just even halves of each other." — 
And the tear went back. 

Meantime, Uncle's remarks flowed slowly 
on, like a deep stream passing 
between two banks — 
one with 

be guarded, thank you." But, for all that, she felt 
proud that Uncle should speak of her in this way 
to Uonald. Probably he was going to mention 
fire, and remind them of the invariable rule that 
they must not, on any account, carry matches into 
the barn, or light a bonfire anywhere 
without express permission. 
Meanwhile, Don- 
iild watched 


its sunny leaves and blossoms all astir in the 
breeze, the other bending, casting its image in the 
stream, and so going on with it in a closer com- 

" You are needed here, Donald ; but, as I said 
before, there is plenty of time. And though 1 
shall bear tliis boarding-school matter in mind, 1 
can not well spare you just now. I shall require, 
perhaps, some vigilance on your part, and cool- 
headedness, — not that anything very serious is 
likely to occur; in fact, there is no real reason 
why it should — but a brother naturally guards his 
sister even when no danger threatens." 

" Certainly," said Don. 

" Humph," thougiit Dorothy, " I don't want to 

face, fol- 
lowing every 
'■ TIkto is nothing 
really to be appre- 
hendctl," continued 
Uncle George; "but it is 
important that you — that Dor- 
othy — I should say — well, my 
children, perhaps you have ob- 
served — indeed, you spoke to-day, 
Dorothy, of having seen something of a person who 
has been about here several times of late." 
" Oh, yes. Uncle," responded Dorry. 
But Donald waited to hear more. He had talked 
previously with his uncle about this same person, 
whom he had seen more than once lounging about 
the grounds. 

"Well," said Mr. George, slowly, "this man, 
'long and lank,' as Dorry truly described him, is 
not really a bad man, — at least, we '11 believe he is 
not, — but he is one whom I wish you both to avoid. 
His company will do you no good." 

"Would n't it be better. Uncle," suggested 
Dorry, now eager to help matters, " for Jack to 
order him off the place whenever he comes on ?" 




"Well, no," said Uncle George. "After all, 
he may not come again. But if he should, I wish 
you to have as little to do with him as possible." 

"We could set Nero on him. Nero can't bite, 
but he 'd scare him pretty well," insisted Dorry, 
with animation. " The idea of his calling me 'Sis' ! 
the great, horrid, long " 

" There, there; that will do," said Mr. George. 
" All you need is to remember what I say. Do not 
fear this man. Above all, do not let him suppose 
that you fear him. But avoid him. Keep within 
the gates for the present." 

" 0-h, Uncle!" exclaimed Dorry, in consterna- 
tion, while even Donald broke forth with a plaintive 
''Both of us, Uncle.?" 

" Yes, both of you, — for a few days at least, or 
until I direct to the contrary. And while out-of- 
doors, keep together." 

"We '11 do that, any way," replied Dorry, half- 

"The man," continued Mr. George, "probably 
will not trouble either of you. He is a ne'er-do-well, 
whom I knew as a boy, but we lost sight of him 
long ago. I suspect he has been steadily going 
down for years." 

" I can't see wh ," began the irrepressible 

Dorry, but she was checked by a firm : " You need 
not see, nor try to see. Only remember what I 
have told you, and say nothing to any one about it. 
Now we may talk of other things. Oh, by the way. 
there was one pretty good reason for thinking of 
making a change in schooling. Dr. Lane is going 
to leave us." 

" Dr. Lane going to leave ! " echoed Donald, in 
regretful surprise. 

" Good ! No more old algebra ! " exclaimed 
Dorry, at the same time clapping her hand to her 
mouth. Her vivid imagination had instantly pict- 
ured relief and a grand holiday. But a moment's 
reflection made her feel quite sorry, especially when 
her uncle resumed : 

"Yes, the good man told me yesterday that his 
cough grows steadily worse, and his physician 
has ordered him to go south for the winter. He 
says he must start as soon as I can find a tutor to 
take his place." 

" Oh, don't let him wait a day. Uncle," exclaimed 
Dorry, earnestly, — " please don't, if going south will 
cure him. We 've noticed his cough, have n't we, 
Don ? -We can study our lessons by ourselves, and 
say them to each other." 

Some bo>s would have smiled knowingh- at this 
somewhat suspicious outburst, but Donald knew 
Dorothy too well for that. She was thoroughly sin- 
cere and full of sympathy for the kind, painstaking 
man who, notwithstanding one or two peculiarities 
which she and her brother could not help observ- 

ing, was really a good teacher. For more than a 
year, omitting only July and August, and Saturday 
holidays, he had been coming to Lakewood every 
week-daj- to instruct the two young Reeds in what he 
called the rudiments of learning. There were two 
visiting teachers besides Dr. Lane — the music- 
master, Mr. Penton, and Mademoiselle Jouvin, the 
French teacher. These came only twice a week, 
and on different days, but Dr. Lane and they man- 
aged to keep the D's very busy. Mr. Reed had 
preferred that his niece and nephew should receive 
their early education at home, and so Donald and 
Dorothy thus far knew nothing of school life. 

What could be the matter with Uncle George ? 
Again Dorothy's look and tone — especially her 
sudden expression of kindliness for her tutor — evi- 
dently had given her uncle pain. He looked down 
at her for an instant with a piteous and (as Donald 
again thought) an almost frightened expression ; 
then quickly recovering himself, went on to tell 
Donald that Dorry was right. It would be best to 
release Dr. Lane at once, and take the chances of 
obtaining a new teacher. In fact, he would see 
the doctor the very next morning, if they would let 
him know when the lesson-hours were over. 

" Uncle ! " 

" Well, sir, what is it? " 

" Did you go to boarding-school, when you 
were a boy ? " 

" Oh, yes. But 1 was older than you are now." 

" Did Aunt Kate? " asked Dorry. 

"There, there; that will do," was the reply. 
Uncle George frequently had to say, "There, 
there ; that will do," to Dorry. 

"Well," she insisted timidly, and almost in a 
whisper, " I have to ask about her, because you 
was n't a girl," — Donald, reaching behind Mr. 
George, tried to pull her sleeve to check the care- 
less grammar, but her soul had risen above such 
things, — " you was n't a girl, — and 1 don't expect 
to go to a boy's boarding-school. Oh, L'ncle, I 
don't, 1 really don't mean to be naughty, but it 's 
so hard, so awfully hard, to be a girl without any 
mother; and when I ask about her or Aunt Kate, 
you always — yes, Uncle, you really do ! — you 
always get mad. Oh, no, 1 don't mean to say 
that, but it makes you feel so awful sorry, that you 
don't know how it sounds to me. You actually 
don't, LTncle. If I only could remember Mamma ! 
But, of course, I can't ; and then that picture that 
came to us from England looks so — so very " 

'■ It 's lovely ! " exclaimed Donald, almost indig- 

" Yes, it 's handsome, but I know Mamma 
would n't look that way now. It 's so sort of stiff. 
May be it 's the big lace collar — and even Liddy 
can't tell me whether it was a good likeness or not. 




But Aunt Kate's picture in the parlor is so different. 
I think it 's because it was painted when she was a 
little {jirl. Oh, it 's so sweet and natural 1 want to 
climl) up and kiss it ! I really do, Uncle. That 's 
why I want to talk about her, and why I love her 
so very much. You would n't speak cross to her, 
Uncle, if she came to life and tried to talk to you 
about us. No, I think you 'd — Oh, Uncle! 
Uncle! What ;> the matter? What makes you 
look so at me ! " 

Before Dorry fairly knew what had happened, 
Donald was at his uncle's feet, looking up at Iiim 
in great distress, and Uncle George was sobbing! 
Only for an instant. His face was hidden in his 
hands, and when he lifted it, he again had full 
control of himself, and Dorry almost felt that she 
had been mistaken. She never had seen her uncle 
cry, or dreamed that he coiilii cry ; and now, as 
she stood with her arms clasped about his neck 
crying because he cried, she could only think, with 
an awed feeling, of his tenderness, his goodness, 
and inwardly blame herself for being " the hate- 
fullest, foolishcst girl in all the world." Looking at 
Donald for sympathy, she whispered : " I 'm sorry. 
Uncle, if I did wrong. 1 '11 try never, never to be 

so — so " She was going to say "so wicked 

again," but the words would not come. She knew 
that she had not been wicked, and yet she could 
not at first hit upon the right term. Just as it 
flashed upon her to say "impetuous," and not to 
care a fig if Donald tiiti secretly laugh at her using 
such a grand expression, Mr. George said, gently, 
but with much seriousness : 

" You need not reproach yourself, my child. 1 
can see very clearly just what you wish to say. 
Don and I can rough it together, but you, poor 
darling," — stroking her hair softly, — "need just 
what we can not give you, a woman's^ — a mother's 

" Oh, yes, you do : Yes, you do. Uncle ! " cried 
Dorothy, in sudden generosity. 

" And it is only natural, my little maid, that you 
should long — as Donald must, too — to hear more 
of the mother whom I scarcely knew, whom, in fact, 
I saw only a few times. Wolcott — 1 should say, 
your I'apa — and she sailed for Europe soon after 
their marriage, and there found " 

He checked himself suddenly, and Dorry took 
advantage of the pause to say, softly : 

" But it was n't so with Aunt Kate. You knew 
her. Uncle, all her life. Was n't she sweet, and 
lovely, and " 

"Yes, yes! Sweet, lovely, everything that was 
noble and good, dear. You can not love her too 

"And Papa," spoke up Donald, sturdily — "he 
was perfect. You 'vc often told us so — a true, up- 

right. Christian gentleman." The boy knew this 
phrase by heart. He had so often heard his uncle 
use it in speaking of the lost brother, that it seemed 
almost like a part of his father's name. "And 
Mamma we I'liow was good, Dorry. Liddy says 
every one liked her ever so much. Uncle George 
says so, too. Only, how can he talk to us about 
our mother if he hardly knew her? She did n't 
ever live in this house. She lived in New York — 
and that made a great dift'erence — don't you see ?" 

"Yes," admitted Dorry, only half-satisfied; 
" but you would have known her, Uncle George, — 
yes, known Mamma, and Aunty, and our Uncle 
Robertson [they had never learned to call that 
uncle by his first name] — we would have known 
them all — no, not all, not poor dear Papa, because 
he never lived to set sail from England ; but all 
the rest, even our dear little cousin, Delia, — ^oh, 
would n't she be sweet if we had her now to love 
and take care of! We should all ha\e known each 
other ever so well — of course we should — if the 
ship had landed safe." 

" Yes, my darlings, if the ship had not gone 
down, all would have been very, very diflerent. 
There would have been a happy household indeed. 
We should have had more than I dare to think of." 

" But we have each other now. Uncle," said 
Dorothy, soothingly and yet with spirit. "It 
can't be so very miserable and dreadful with you 
and Donald and me left ! " 

"Bless you, my little comforter! — No. God 
be praised, we have still a great deal to be thankful 

"Yes, and there arc Liddy and Jack, and dear 
old Nero," said Donald, jiartly because he wanted 
to add his mite toward the cheerfuUer view of 
things, but mainly because he felt choked, and it 
would be as well to say something, if only to prove 
to himself that he was not giving way to unmanly 

"Oh, yes — Jack!" added Dorry. "If it were 
not for Jack where would we twins be, 1 'd like to 
know ! " 

Said in an ordinary tone of voice, this would 
have sounded rather flippant, but Dorry uttered 
the words with real solemnity. 

" 1 think of that often," said Donald, in the same 
spirit. " It seems so wonderful, too, that we did n't 
get drowned, or at least die of exposure, and " 

Dorothy interrupted him with an animated 
"Yes, indeed! — mercy! Such little, little bits of 
babies ! " — and Donald turned to look inquiringly 
at Uncle George before proceeding. 

" It does seem like a miracle," Uncle George 

"But Jack," continued Donald, warmly, "was 
such a wonderful swimmer." 




" Yes, and wonderful catcher!" said Dorothy. 
"Just think how he caught us — Ugh ! It makes 
nie shiver to think of being tossed in the air over 
those black, raging waves — we must have looked 
like little bundles flying from the ship. Was n't 
Jack just wonderful to hold on to us as he did, and 
work so hard looking for — for the others, too. 
Mercy ! if we only get our feet wet now, Liddy 
seems to think it 's all over with us — and yet, look 
what we stood then ! Little mites of babies, soaked 
to the skin, out in an open boat on the ocean all 
that terrible time." 

" Much we cared for that," was Don's comment. 
" Probably we laughed, or played pat-a-cake, or 

" Played pat-a-cake ! " interrupted Dorry, with 
intense scorn of Donald's ignorance of baby ways 
— "babies only six weeks old playing pat-a-cake ! 
I guess not. It 's most likely we cried and screamed 
like everything; is n't it, Uncle?" 

Uncle nodded, with a strange mixture of gravity 
and amusement, and Donald added, earnestly ; 

" Whether we cried or not. Jack was a trump. 
Splendid old fellow! A real hero, was n't he. 
Uncle ? 1 can see him now — catching us — then, 
when the other boat capsized, chucking us into 
somebody's arms, and plunging into the sea to 
save all he could, but coming back alone." (The 
children had talked about the shipwreck so often 
that they felt as if they remembered the awful 
scene.) "He was nearly dead by that time, you 

"Yes, and nearly dead or not, if he had n't 
come back," chirped Dorothy, who was growing 
tired of the tragic side of Donald's picture, — " if he 
had n't come back to take charge of us, and take 

us on board the big ship " 

- "The 'Cumberland,'" said Don. 

"Yes, the 'Cumberland,' or whatever she was 
called ; if he had n't climbed on board with us, 
and wrapped us in blankets and everything, and 
fed us and so on, it would n't have been quite so 
gay ! " 

I^ow, nothing could have been in worse taste 
than the conclusion of this speech, and Dorothy 
knew it ; but she had spoken in pure defiance of 
solemnity. There had been quite enough of that 
for one evening. 

Upcle George, dazed, troubled, and yet in some 
vague way inexpressibly comforted, was quietly 
looking first at one speaker, then at the other, 
when Liddy opened the door with a significant : 

" Mr. Reed, sir, did you ring ? " 

Oh, that artful Liddy! Uncle read "bed-time" 
in her countenance. It was his edict that half- 
past nine should be the hour ; and the D's knew 
that their fate was sealed. 

"Good-night, Uncle ! " said Donald, kissing his 
uncle in good, hearty fashion. 

"Good-night, Uncle! "said Dorothy, clinging to 
his neck just an instant longer than usual. 

" Good-night, my blessings ! "said Uncle George, 
reluctantly, as he closed the library door behind 

Nero, shut up in Liddy's room, was barking 

Two more orderly, well-behaved young persons 
never left an apartment, but I must tell the truth. 
When they were fairly in the hall, Donald started 
to go upstairs on the outside, holding on to the 
balusters, and Dorry ran to the front door, in 
spite of Liddy's remonstrances, with a frisky : 

" Oh, do let me have just one breath of fresh 
air ! " 

She came back ins'tantly, rushed past Liddy, 
who was slowly puffing her way up the stairs, met 
Donald at the first landing (he had condescended 
by this time to leap over to the stair side of the 
balusters), and whispered : 

" Upon my sacred word, I saw him ! He's out 
there, standing at the front steps ! " 

" Uncle ought to know it ! " exclaimed Donald, 
turning to run down again. 

But he stopped on the next step, for Mr. George 
had come from the library, opened the front door, 
and disappeared. 

The two D's stole from their rooms, after Liddy 
"oade them good-night, and sat on the top stair, 

"Why did you open your window, just now, 

'• Why, because I wanted to look out, of course." 

" Now Don, I know better. You. coughed, just 
to let Uncle know that you were around, if there 
should be any trouble. You know you did. " 

" Well, what if 1 did?" admitted Donald, reluc- 
tantly. "Hark!" and he sprang up, ready for 
action. "No, he's come back. It's Uncle. I 
say, Dorry, it will come hard on us to stay on this 
side of the hedge, like chickens. I wonder how 
long it will last." 

"Goodness knows! But he did n't say we 
could n't go to the Danbys'. I suppose that 's 
because we can get there by going around the back 

" I suppose so," assented Donald. " So long as 
we keep off the public road, it 's all right." 

" How queer ! " 

"Yes, it is queer," said Donald. "However, 
Uncle knows best." 

" Dear me, how good we are, all of a sudden ! " 
laughed Dorry, but she kissed Donald soberly for 


I) O N A L U A N n U O K O T 1 1 \ 


good-night, and after going to bed lay awake for at 
least fifteen minutes, — a great while for her, — 
thinking over the events of the day and evening. 

Chapter VII. 


Who were the Danbys? 

They were the Reeds' nearest neighbors, and no 
two households could be more different. In the 
first place, the Reeds were a small family of three, 
with four servants ; the Danbys were a large family 
of twelve, with no servants. The Reeds had a spa- 
cious country mansion, rich old furniture, pretty 
row-boats, fine horses, carriages, and abundant 
wealth ; the Danbys had a little house, poor old 
furniture, one cow, five pigs, one home-made scow, 
one wheelbarrow, and no money, excepting the 
very moderate income earned by the father of the 
family and his eldest boy. There the great contrast 
ended. The Danbys were thoroughly respectable, 
worthy, and cleanly ; the parents, kind and loving 
souls, could read and write, and the children were 
happy, obedient, and respectful. To be sure, it 
would have been very hard for the best school- 
master of the county to parse some of Mrs. Danby's 
fluent sentences, or to read at a glance Mr. Danby's 
remarkable penmanship. But that same learned 
individual would have delighted in the brightness 
of the sons and daughters, had he been so fortu- 
nate as to be their teacher. Alas ! the poor little 
Danbys had enjoyed but a scant and broken 
schooling ; but they were sharp little things, and 
native wit served them whenever reading, writing, 
and arithmetic failed. Indeed, the very fact of 
their intercourse with Donald and Dorothy had 
done wonders for their language and deportment. 
Yet each individual, from the big brother Ben 
down to the latest baby, had his or her own pecul- 
iar character and style, which not twenty Dons 
and Dorothys could alter. 

It was not very difficult, after all, to remember 
the names of the young Danbys, for Mr. Danby, 
being a methodical man, had insisted on their 
being named in alphabetical order and that they 
each should have two names, so as to give them 
their choice in after life. Therefore, the first was 
called Amanda Arabella, who, at the present stage 
of our story, was a girl of seventeen, with poetical 
gifts of her own ; the second was Benjamin Buster, 
aged fifteen ; the third. Charity Cora, dark-eyed, 
thoughtful, nearly thirteen, and, the neighbors de- 
clared, never seen without a baby in her arms; the 
fourth, Daniel David, a robust young person of 
eleven ; the fifth, Ella Elizabeth, red-haired, and 
just half-past nine, as she said. Next came Francis 

Ferdinand, or " Fandy," as he was called for short, 
who, though only eight, was a very important mem- 
ber of the family; next, Gregory George, who was 
six, — and here the stock of double names seems 
to have given out, for after Master Gregory came 
plain little Helen, aged four, — Isabella, a wee tod- 
dler "going on three," — and, last of all, little 
Jamie, " the sweetest, tunningest little baby that 
ever lived." So now you have them all : Amanda 
Arabella, Benjamin Buster, Charity Cora, Daniel 
David, Ella Elizabeth, Francis Ferdinand, (Gregory 
George, Helen, Isabella, and roly-poly Jamie. If 
you can not quite remember all the children, who 
can blame you ? Even Mrs. Danby herself, with 
her knowledge of the alphabet to help her, always 
had to name them upon her hands, allowing a child 
to each finger, and giving Elizabeth and Fandy 
the thumbs. 

The stars of the family in Donald's and Doro- 
thy's estimation were Benjamin Buster, who had 
seen the world, and had enjoyed adventures and 
hair-breadth escapes already, and was now home 
for the first time in four years. Charity Cora, 
whose big dark eyes told their own story, and little 
Fandy. Mr. Danby was proud of all his children, 
though perhaps proudest of Baby Jamie, because 
there was no knowing what the child might come 
to ; but Mrs. Danby looked with absolute rever- 
ence upon her eldest — Amanda Arabella. " Such 
a mind as that girl has, Mr. Danby," she would 
say to her husband, "it is n't for us to compre- 
hend. She might have come just so out of a 
book, Amanda might." And Mr. Danby would 
nod a pleased and puzzled assent, vaguely wonder- 
ing how long he could manage to hold his high 
parental state over so gifted a creature. 

Amanda Arabella's strong points were poetry 
and sentiment. To be sure, she scrubbed the 
floor and washed the dishes, but she did these 
menial duties " with her head in the clouds," as 
she herself had confessed to her mother. Her soul 
was above it, and as soon as she could, she intended 
to "go somewhere and perfect herself" This idea 
of going somewhere to jjerfect herself, was one 
which she had entertained in secret for some time, 
though she had not the slightest idea of where she 
could go, and in just what way she was to be per- 
fected. She only knew that, at present, house- 
work and the nine brothers and sisters were quite 
as much as she could attend to, excepting at odd 
moments when "the poetry fit was on her," as her 
mother expressed it— "and then wild horses 
could n't stop her! " 

" I can't deny, Mr. Reed," said that proud mother 
to her kind neighbor — who, on the morning after 
his interview with Donald and Dorothy in his study, 
had halted at Mrs. Danby's whitewashed gate to 




wish her a stately "Good-morning, madam!" and 
to ask after her family — "I can't deny, and be 
honest, that 1 'm uncommon blest in my children, 
though the Lord has seen fit to give us more than 
a extra lot of 'em. They 're peart and sound as 
heart could wish, and so knowin' ! Why," she 
continued, lowering her voice and drawing closer 
to the gate — " there's my Fandy now, only eight 
years old, can preach 'most like a parson ! It 'ud 
rise your hair with surprise to hear him. An' Ben, 
my oldest boy, has had such adventures, an' haps 
an' mishaps, as ought to be wTit out in a birogrophy. 
An' there 's Amanda Arabella, my daughter — well, 
if I only could set down the workin's o' my brain 
as that girl can, I 'd do ! She has got a most 
uncommon lively brain. Why, the other day — 
But all this time you 're standin', Mr. Reed. Wont 
you walk in, sir? Well, certainly, sir — it aint to 
be '.xpected you could take time goin' by so, as you 
are — Well, my 'Mandy, sir, only the other day was 
a-comin' out into the shed with a pan o' dish-water, 
and she sees a rainbow. ' Ma ! ' says she, a-call- 
in' me, ' take this 'ere dish-water ! ' and before 't 
I knowed it, she was a writin' down with her 
lead-pencil the beautifullest thoughts that ever 
was — all about that rainbow. In the evening, 
when her pa come, I just up and showed it to him, 
an' he says, says he : ' Them 's the grandest 
thoughts I ever see put to paper ! ' " 

" Ah ! " said Mr. Reed, with an expression of 


hearty interest and amusement on his honest face, 
yet evidently ready to take advantage of the first 
opportunity to go on his way. 

"Yes, indeed," promptly assented Mrs. Danby, 

"and she aint all. Our children, if I do say it, 
seem to have more brains than they 've a fair right 
to — bein' poor folk's children, as you may say. It 
don't tire 'em one bit to learn — their pa says every 
study they tackle gets the worst of it — they use it 
up, so to speak. 1 dreamed th' other night I see the 
four English branches, 'rithmetic, writin', readin', 
and hist'ry, standin' exhausted waiting for them 
children to get through with them — But 1 see 
you 're shifting yourself, sir, for going, and I ought 
to be ashamed to detain you this way clacking 
about my own flesh and blood. I 've been poorly 
lately, I did n't tell you, Mr. Reed" (looking at 
him plaintively). 

" No, indeed, I 'm very sorry to hear it," said 
Mr. Reed, sympathetically. " Nothing serious, 
1 hope." 

"Oh, no. One o' my billerous attacks; the 
spine o' my back seemed to give out somehow, and 
I was dreadful bad for a couple o' days. But my 
Thomas an' the children — bless their hearts! — 
got me up again. You 'n' looking well, Mr. Reed. 

Good-morning, sir — good-morning! Sakes ! 

He went off so sudden 1 forgot. " 

And thus exclaiming to herself, the dear old 
talker went back into the house. 

" Forgot what, Ma ? " asked .'\manda, who stood 
in the door-way trying to think of a rhyme for olives. 

"Why, to tell Mr. Reed about that queer kind of 
a man, who 's just engaged to lodge with us. I 
don't feel like trustin' him somehow, and yet it 
is n't for plain folks to be refusing a real boarder 
who wants a plain family table, and don't put on 
any airs. I told him," she continued, raising her 
voice as she went farther into the house, "that if 
ours was n't a family table (with ten children set- 
ting 'round it, includin' the baby, and Mr. Danby 
at the head), 1 did n't know what was. But he 's 
to come back in an hour or two. Where in the 
world to tuck him is the question. Anyhow, you 
'd better go up, dear, and ready brother's room for 
him. Ben 's got two rabbit-skins tacked outside 
the window which '11 have to come down. Ben '11 
have to go in with Dan and Fandy to 
/■ "1 sleep. — Mercy ! Here come the twins, 

— --£ 'cross-lots! — an' Fandy a preachin' there 

^ — . in the pump-shed ! " 
"^ True enough, the twins were coming 

around by the back way. They approached 

softly, and made a motion of warning to 
Mrs. Danby, as they "drew nearer, for they 
could hear Fandy Danby's voice, and 
wished to enjoy the fun. Mrs. Danby, 
smiling and nodding, pointed to a place where 
they could stand unobserA'ed and hear the sermon. 

It was the hour for the afternoon " cleaning-up." 
Eight of the little Danbys, including Charity- with 




Baby Jamie in her arms, had assembled then to 
wash their hands and faces at the battered green 
pump under the shed, where, on a long bench, were 
two iron basins 
and a saucer 
containing a 
few fraginents 
of br, , 


soap, while 
on the wall \ \"^ 
hung a roll- 
er-towel that al- 
ready was on very 
familiar terms with 
Danby faces and 
hands. The gcn- 
er?l toilet had been 
rather a noisy one, 
owing partly to the baby objecting to having soap 
in its eyes, and partly to the fact that too many 
required the services of the Danby roller at the 
same instant, to say nothing of Miss Helen insist- 
ing upon slapping the water in a most unlady-like 
way, and so splashing Master Gregory. 

This combination having brought matters to a 
crisis, had caused Fandy to mount a small step- 
ladder, and, with many original gestures, address 
the crowd in the following fashion : 

"Chil'Ren! I 'm ashamed of you! I don't 
know when I 've been so — so umprcssed with the 
badness of this family. How often, my hearers, 
do you 'spect me to stop my dressing to extort you ? 
I did n't mean to preach no more sermons this 
week, but you do behave so awful bad, I must. 

" Now, first, don't you know speakin' saucy is a 
sin? Don't you know it? It makes us hateful, 
an' it makes us cross, an' it makes people tell Ma. 
It aint right for Chrisshen chil'rcn to do such 
things. It don't never say in our Bible-lesson thai 

Vol. IX. — 17. 

folks can call peoples 'mean uglies' just for want- 
in' the roller. An' it don't say that a good Chris- 
shen child can say ' Pshaw for you ! ' for havin' 
__^^ not to make quite so much 

noise, which you, my beloved 
'(iory, said just now to Charity. 
" Now, we must be good an' 
perlite, if we want to do right 
and have things Chrissmas, an' 
if we want to be loved 
on earth and in heaven. 
(No, sir, that aint talk- 
in' big, and 1 ilo know 
what I mean, too.) I 
say, we must be perlite. 
1 1 's natural for big folks 
to rub noses the wrong 
way when they wash 
faces, an' to comb hair 
funny — they 're born 
so. An' all we can do 
is to be patient an' wait 
till we get big, an' have 
chil'rcn of our own. 
"But what I say — what I mean, what 1 — what 
1 — (Now you, Gregory, give Helen batk her dolly 
right away, or I '11 come down to you!) — what I 
mean is, that we all ought to be good and perlite. 
It 's wicked to be saucy. We ought to stand one 
another. An' nudgin' is wicked, an' scroogin' is 
wicked, an' makin' faces aint the way to do. No 
more aint buUyin', nor mockin', nor any of those 
things. I go in for bein' pleasant and kind, an' 
havin' fun fair — only, my beloved hearers, 1 can't 
do it all alone. If we 'd all be good Chrisshen chil'- 
rcn, things would go better, an' there would n't be 
such a racket. 

" Can't you cleanse your sinful hearts, my hear- 
ers ? Cleanse 'em, anyhow, enough to behave ? 
Can't you? — (Stop your answerin', David ; it puts 
me out, and, besides, you ought n't to say that. 
You ought to say 'I '11 try.') I notice you aint 
none of you real quiet and peaceful, unless 1 'm 
preachin', or you 're eatin' something good. 1 also 
can see two people lookin' through the crack, 
which I think they'd better come in, as I would n't 
mind it. Now I can't extort you no more this 

To Tandy's great disgust, the audience applauded 
the conclusion of his sermon, and were about to 
become more uproarious than ever, when the sud- 
den appearance of Donald and Dorothy put them 
upon their good behavior. 

" Is Ben here?" asked Donald, after the usual 
"How-d'ye-do's" were over, and as Fandy was 
taking a hasty turn at the roller-towel. 




"Don't know," said Fandy; "he 's mendin' a 
trap ovci there" — pointing to an inclosed corner 
close by the house, that had been roughly boarded 
over and fitted up with bench and table by Master 
Ben, so as to make a sort of workshop. 

They all went over there, accompanied by Charity 
Cora, and were received in Ben's usual style, which 
consisted in simply ceasing to whistle aloud, though 
he still held his lips in whistling position while he 
proceeded with his work. 

They watched him in silence for a moment (the 
young Danbys, at least, knowing that they would 
be sternly, but not unkindly, ordered off, if they 
interfered with the business in hand), and then, to 
their relief, saw Ben drive in the last nail and lay 
down the hammer. 

"What 's that for? — to catch yab-bits?" asked 
Gregory George, nicknamed 'Gory by his brothers 
for the fun of the thing, he was so fair-haired and 

"No; it's to catch little boys," answered Ben, 
whereat 'Gory grinned, and looked at Don and 
Dorry to see if they were foolish enough to be- 
lieve it. 

"Hollo, Donald." 

Dorry was softly talking to Cora, and at the 
same time coaxing the baby from its sister's arms. 

" Hollo yourself! " was Donald's quick response. 
"Did you have any luck, Ben, last night?" 

"Yes, two! Got the skins out drying. Beauties! 
I say, Donald, can you spare me your gun again if 
you 're not going to use it Thanksgiving Day ? " 

" Certainly," answered Don ; " you can have it, 
and welcome. Tyler and I are going to fire at a 
mark in the afternoon, with Uncle and the girls. 
But we '11 use the rifle." 

"What girls?" asked Charity Cora, eagerly, 
hoping from Donald's plural way of putting it that 
she and Ella Elizabeth possibly were to have a 
share in the sport ; whereat Daniel David, guessing 
her thoughts, answered for Donald, with a cutting: 
"Why, Queen Victoria and the royal princesses, 
to be sure. Who did you think ? " 

Cora made no reply, but, feeling rather ashamed, 
rubbed her arms (a habit of hers whenever the 
baby for the moment happened to be out of them), 
and looked at Donald. 

" Josie Manning and Ed Tyler are coming over 
after dinner," said Donald. 

" I should think they'd rather come to dinner," 
spoke up Ella Elizabeth, with hungry eyes. "Tur- 
keys and things — Oh, my I Punkin pie !" 

This called forth two exclamations in a breath ; 

Dan David: " ' Punkin pie ! Oh, my ! ' We 're 
getting poetical. Call 'Mandy, quick. Punkin pie 
— sky high." 

Fandy : " Don't be so unproper. It 's pumpkun 

pie. Dorothy said so. And, besides, we ought to 
let the company do the talking." 

" Humph, I guess they forget what they were 
talkin' about." 

" Not I, Charity," laughed Donald, turning to 
the latest speaker. " In the first place, Josie and 
Ed did n't feel like leaving home on Thanksgiving 
Day till after dinner, and we two fellows are going 
to teach her and Dorry to shoot straight — and" 
(now addressing Ben, who by this time was wedg- 
ing the handle of a hammer) " as for the gun, Ben, 
you 're always welcome to it, so long as you return 
it in as good order as you did last time. You 
cleaned it better than I do." 

"I found the rags," said Helen, slyly, — "ever so 
many. Did n't I, Ben?" 

Ben nodded at her, and Helen, made happy for 
the whole day, ran off hugging a broken dolly in 
exact imitation of Charity and Jamie ; meanwhile, 
her big brother, pleased at Don's compliment, 
remarked : " It 's a prime gun, and never fails." 

" Never fails yoi/, Ben, you 'd better say. It 
often fails me, never mind how carefully I aim." 

" That 's just it, Donald," said Ben. " There 's 
no good in aiming so particular." 

" Well, what 's a fellow to do?" replied Donald. 
"You must take aim, and by the time you get a 
bird well sighted, he 's gone." 

" Sight? I never sight," said Ben. " I just fire 

" You don't mean to say you shoot a bird with- 
out aiming at him?" 

"Oh, well, I aim, of course; but I don't look 
through the sight, or any such nonsense." 

" I don't understand," said Donald, doubtingly. 

" Don't you ? Why, it 's just this : if the bird 's 
flying he '11 go ahead, wont he ? Well, you fire 
ahead and meet him — that 's the whole of it. You 
know how an Indian shoots an arrow. He does n't 
look along the line of the arrow for ten minutes, 
like a city archer ; he decides, in a flash, what he 's 
going to do, and lets fly. Practice is the thing. 
Now, when you 're after a wild duck, you can aim 
exactly at him and he 's safe as a turnip ; but see a 
strip of water betwixt the nozzle of your gun and 
him, and he 's a gone bird if you fire straight. 
You have to allow for diving — but practice is the 
thing. Learn by missing." 

"Oh, that's good!" shouted Daniel David; 
" ' learn by missing.' I 'm going to try that plan 
in school after this. Don't you say so, Fandy ? " 

" No, I don't," said the inflexible Fandy, while 
he gazed in great admiration at the two big boys. 

At this point the mother appeared at the door 
with an empty pail in each hand, and before she 
had time to call, David and Fandy rushed toward 
her, seized the pails, and would have been off to- 



gether for the well, if Mrs. Danby had not said: 
"Let David get the water, Fandy, and you bring 
me some light wood for boiling the kettle." 

" You can't boil the kettle. Ma," called out one 
of the children. " You boil the water." 

" No more you can't," assented Mrs. Danby, 
with an admiring laugh. 

All this time, Dorry had been tossing the strug- 
gling baby, and finally winning it to smiles, though 
every fiber in its plump little body was squirming 
in the direction of Charity Cora. Meanwhile, that 
much-enduring sister had made several pungent 
remarks, in a low tone, to her visitor, concerning 
babies in general and Jamie in particular. 

" Now you see how nice it is ! He keeps up that 
wriggling all day : now it 's to come to me ; but 
when I have him, it's wriggling for the chickens, 
and for Mother, and for everything. And if you 
set him down out-of-doors he sneezes, and if you 
set him down in the house he screams, and Ma 
calls out to know ' if I can't amuse that baby ! ' 1 

tote him round from morning to night — so I do ! " 
— Here the baby's struggles became so violent 
and noisy that Charity Cora savagely took him 
from Dorry, whereat he threw his plump little arms 
about his sister's neck with such a satisfied baby- 
sigh that she kissed him over and over, and looked 
in placid triumph at Dorothy, apparently forgetting 
that she ever had made the slightest complaint 
against him. 

" Have you begun with your new teacher yet ?" 
she asked, hugging Jamie, and looking radiantly 
at Dorothy. 

"Oh, no!" answered Dorry. "How did you 
know Dr. Lane was going ? " 

" Ma heard it somewhere ! My, don't I wish 1 
had a teacher to come every day and put me 
through ! I 'm just dying to learn things. Do 
you know, I have n't " 

And here the girls sauntered off together to sit 
down on a tree-stump, and have a good long talk, 
if the babv would allow it. 

(To be continuid.) 





By Margaret Vandegrift. 

I SAT one winter night beside the hearth; 

Without, the north-wind 'round the chimney 
Within, the fire hummed forth its drowsy mirth, 

And — I suppose I dreamed ! 

A Uttle face peeped at me through the gloom — 
A smutty little face, all wet with tears; 

A timid figure crept across the room, 
Crouching with 
sudden fears, — 

And murmuring, "Oh! 
^--;'' 5/ was ever such bad 

X ii/f^-^i luck? 

"" I <^ '.^^-f 1 Ve broken my dear 

•>i -'^'Js:/ sister's best um- 

^.^%^ brella, 

- .. . '^•' And yesterday I killed 
the little duck — 
Unlucky Cinderella!" 

A voice cried, "Cinderella ! Are 
you there?" 
( It was the sister's voice, full 
', well I knew it ! 

The culprit murmured, crouching 
'neath a chair, 
1 did n't go to do it ! " 

And the voice said, retreating as it spake, 
" She knows that if 1 find her 1 shall shake her. 
There is no telling what she next will break — 
Was never such a breaker ! " 

I saw a little maid whose locks of gold 
Strayed from a scarlet hood. 

She bore a basket on her 
.^^S'.'CJ chubby arm. 

^,r " Look ! " she exclaimed, 

"the butter is so 
It has not melted, though 
the day is warm — 
I am Red Riding-hood ! " 

"Oh, no!" 1 said. "The wolf " 

She pointed back 

To where within the swamp 
the marsh-grass grew. 
" The wolf is ///^r6',"she said. 

"He kept my track — 
I knew not what to do. 

1883. J 



"When all at once I thought about the fen; 
'T was dangerous, but. then, I am so light 
That I could walk in safety on it, when 
The mud would hold him tight. 

'■ I skipped across; he followed after me, 

But the black swamp has spoiled his wicked 
fun — 
It holds him fast. Yonder is coming, see. 
The hunter with his gun." 

She tripped awa)-, and in the flickering light 
A shadowy procession followed fast, 

Ta-xing at once my memory and my sight 
To know them as they passed. 

There was the Fair One with the Golden Locks, 
Leading the white cat. who was purring 
loudly ; 

Sweet Beauty followed, meekly darning socks ; 
Her sisters stepping proudly. 

The bright Scheherazade, who, as she walked. 
Poured forth a wondrous tale with an.\ious 
hurry ; 

The Red Queen, frowning crossly as she talked, 
The White Queen in a flurry. 

And then, more slowly, with a piteous look. 
Driving, with anxious care, some bleating 

A little maiden came, — she bore a crook. 
I should have known Bo-Peep. 

And she was crying softly as she said : 
" I mended them as best I could, but oh ! 
Although I did it with the finest thread. 
The join will always show. 

" And everywhere the cruel world will say, 
Whenever it shall hear the name Bo-Peep: 
' Ah, yes ! She left the sheep to go astray. 
The while she fell asleep ! ' " 

A dismal quawk drowned the sad, faltering 

And after her, half-flying and half-waddling, 
Went past the most forlorn of wTCtched birds. 

With web-feet feebly paddling. 

And it was quawking, " Ah ! I have no use — 
Me miserable ! — for either wings or legs, 

For I am dead, alas! I was the Goose 
That laid the Golden Eggs!" 

"And who, poor bird, has killed you?" mur- 
mured 1. 
The goose, with dismal look and hopeless 
Quacked forth her answer as she strove to fly : 
"Who?" said she. "Every one!" 

"I 'm sure," I said, "I 've never — " With a 
Full of disdain, she waddled on her way, 
Hissing out angrily, as she looked back, 
" That 's just what they all say ! " 

Her hissing woke me. Starting up, 1 said: 
" I 'm glad it was a dream — and where 's the use 
Of questioning who killed her, now she 's dead? 
But— Aj.v 1 killed that goose?" 


■' I 


2 54 





Heigh-ho ! Another New Year's Day is almost 
here. Great times the big and httle folk have upon 
that day, I 'm told. According to all accounts, 
there 's a vast deal of smiling and friendliness and 
happy good-will crowded into a few hours then, — 
so your Jack approves of it. I 'm not much of a 
visitor, myself, but I '11 send from my pulpit a 
hearty welcome, in your name, to 1882. May it 
prove a happy New Year to you, my beloved, one 
and all ! 

And now let us consider 


A SCIENTIFIC friend of mine sends an account 
of a curious performance with bees, which I should 
like you to read. It is copied, he says, from a life 
of one Mr. Thoreau, and runs as follows : 

" Mr. Cotton, a clergyman, the son of a late governor of the 
Bank of England, took bees, in the first place, out to Australia, and 
afterward to the islands of the South Pacific. His behavior to his 
bees was the wonder of all who were in the ships with him. He 
would call them by certain sounds, and they came to him clustering 
so thickly that they almost covered him, and he would actually 
handle and fondle them in such a fashion as would have been to 
another very dangerous. Then, when he wished to relieve himself 
of them, he gathered them together as one would a mass of loose 
worsted into a ball, took the mass near to the hive, and at a given 
sound or signal, they flew apart and retired to their proper home." 

Rather extraordinary, eh, my dears ? But doubt- 
less bees have more than one peculiarity, and, 
according to my friend, the Mr. Thoreau who is 
told about in the book was on very intimate terms 
himself with bees and birds and blossoms. Per- 
haps you 've heard of him before. 

If so, I must add a message from my friend's 
postscript, which says that most people who see the 
name in print call it "Tho-ro," but that the gen- 
tleman himself and his personal friends pronounced 
it almost exactly like the word " thorough." 

No matter which way you prefer, I 'm confident. 

from all I hear, that you '11 find pleasure and profit, 
one of these days, in reading some of Mr. Tho- 
reau's own e.\periences. 


Dear Jack : That October talk about hickory-nuts is tantalizing. 
What do you think of a country that has no *' hickories" at all? 
They have none up here in Quebec, and the children from *' the 
States" keep wondering why : can you tell? There are no walnuts 
here, either, and what shall American boys do without them ? We 
have butternuts and beech-nuts, but what are they compared to 
shell.barks ? Can it be that the big, strong hickory-trees are afraid 
of the climate? i'oit don't fear it, and surely they need not be so 
cowardly. _ Please ask your children to tell us why this happens to 
be " No-hickory land. " Agn^s Gr^goire. 



Thank you, thank you, my young friends ! 
much obliged. Very glad to hear from you. Such 
attention is really overwhelming. The pile of 
"solutions" of the Historical Pi given you last 
month, is going to be delightfully large ; even while 
I WTite they are coming in ! Good ! This is as it 
should be. There can not be too many. The 
next thing is to see how many of these answers are 
correct. Ah, there 's the rub ! 

Depend on it, every one shall be carefully exam- 
ined by the committee, and then ho ! for the hun- 
dred prizes ! Remember, competitors may send in 
solutions until the tenth of January. So all new 
readers who see these words are advised to refer at 
once to St. Nicholas for December — the Christ- 
mas number — page iSo. 

With hearty good wishes, yours to command, 

Silas Green. 

fish that talk. 

Dear Jack: Last summer we were all at Watch Hill, and 
Charlie and I were out fishing three times. The first fish which 1 
caught was a strange one. His head looked and felt like a box, 
nearly square, with sharp comers, and on the top and sides were 
spines sticking out, almost like nails: they pricked my fingers badly 
in taking him off the hook. And he had a fin on each side, half 
as long as his body: these fins he spread out like wings. 

But his head and his wings were not the strangest part of him. 
Before I could lay him down he began to " talk," as Charlie called 
it, though it sounded to me more like grunting: it was the same 
noise that a little pig makes. Pretty soon the old fisherman who 
rowed our boat, caught another, and when he threw him down, he^ 
too, began to "talk," and mine seemed to answer him. 

Charlie said they were trying to decide which was the greater 
fool for biting at the hook and being caughL But they did not 
speak English, and I think he was mistaken. The fisherman said 
they were Sea Robins : when we came ashore I asked paoa, and he 
said that they belonged to the genus Prionotus, and in works on 
Ichthyology were called Gurnards. J. H. T. 

What next ? I suppose we shall soon hear that 
the little Sea-Urchins are learning to read, and 
these Sea Robins to sing ! Great things going on 
down there in the dampness ! 


What becomes of all the old moons? 


Dear Jack: Do you believe it? Did you ever see a stone float- 
ing about? Probably not: but I have, and many of them, too. On 
the shore of Clear Lake, north of San Francisco, in California, is a 
small bluff of rocks. Often, in passing it, I have picked up pieces- 
as large as my head, and tossed them out on the lake, and away they 


J A C K - I X - T 1 1 E - P U L P 1 T . 


would go, bobbing about as lively as so many corks, and fullv as gvor he Can find to Cat. While thus darting about, 

light. .And 1 am well xssurcd that before any saw-mills were built »i 1 • 1 »» i i 1 1^ -r 1 

■ - ■ ■ be obtained, the '""i l^"'" uttcrs loud and exultant cries, as if proud 

there, and when, of course, boards were not to 
Indians sometimes Lashed together a number of these stones, and 
thus made rafLs with which they paddled themselves across the lake, 
— here, one or two miles wide, i have no doubt it could be done. 

Now, what kind of stone can that be, you ask t Well, dear Jack, 
it is pumice-stone, which is as full of holes and spaces as a sponge, 
and the air which it contains causes it to be so kght as to float on 
the water. Pumice-stone always comes from volcanoes, and the 
volcano from which this at Clear Lake came is in plain sight about 
five miles away, but it is a long time since it sent out any flames or 
smoke. The Indians call it Conoktoi, which means the Cnief mount- 
ain : it is 4,300 feet high, and 1 found its summit covered everywhere 
with pumice-stone. B. H. P. 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: In your .August number, a cone- 
spondent ^ives an account of a rooster that took care of chickens ; 
and he wishes to be informed if anything of that kind had ever 
occurred elsewhere. 1 answer yes. and in my bam, at Quincy, 
Ma-ss., in 1S67. I had a dozen "Shanghais," one of which was a 
rooster, and he was a gawky, huge crc'Uure, that often picked his 
com from the head of a barrel. It so happened that one of the 
hens left her chickens a few days after they were hatched, at night: 
and ascended to the roost with the other fowls, when her chickens 
huddled together in a comer of the bam. And the second night I 
found the rooster brooding over them ! And so he continued to do, 
each night, till the chickens went to most with the hens: while by 
day they followed their mother. And for a number of days, after 
the chickens left that comer, and ascended upon the pales to roost, 
the rooster still squatted there without the chickens ! L. R. S. 


This wonderful fellow, I 'm told, opens oysters 
with his bill. The longer mandible is thrust be- 

ef its skill. 

tween the valves, and then turned so as to wedge 
open the shell ; in fact, it is used as an oysterman 
uses his knife. The oyster is then cut away with 
the upper blade and swallowed. Sometimes the 
oyster closes upon the whole beak, in which case 
the bird bangs the shell against a stone so as to 
break the hinge and expose the inhabitant, which 
is immediately scooped out. He also skims along 
just over the surface of the sea, picking up what- 



Only the, other day, a Scottish acquaintance wa* enlightening me 
upon this very subject of the "jackknifc." My trouserless fnend 
went on to tell me that for centuries past, in Scotland, the article in 
question has been known as a *'jock-le-leg," which barbarism is 
neither more nor less than a corruption of *' Jacques de Liege," the 
name of a FlemLsh cutler whose knives were once highly esteemed in 
North linLain, and always bore their maker's name. No doubt 
Jacques de Liege sent cutlery to England as well as to Scodand, and 
from Jacques' knife to "jackknife " is a very short step. 

The Little School-ma'am sends the above, which 
she clipped from a newspaper, and she says that, 
in the "regulation full fig" Highland costume, 
according to good authority, a knife is carried, stuck 
part way in, between the stocking and the leg. 
Sometimes the knife is sheathed, but generally it 
is not, being placed in 
the stocking for ready 
use, when hunting deer. 
Begging the Scotchman's 
pardon, why may not this 
queer place for a knife — 
next to the leg — have 
been a foundation for the 
term " Jock-te-leg " .' or 
is "leg" old Scotch for 
something else.' 


The "shoe-black plant" 
is the name popularly 
given to a species of hi- 
biscus growing in New 
South Wales, and re- 
markable for the showy 
appearance of its scarlet 
flowers, which, when dry, 
are used as a substitute 
for shoe-blacking. 

The flowers contain 
sticky juice, which, when 
evenly applied, gives a 
glossy, varnish-like ap- 
pearance ; and it perfectly replaces ordinary black- 
ing, with the advantage that it is cleanly in use, 
and can be applied in a few moments. Four or 
five flowers, with the anthers and pollen removed, 
are required for each boot, and a polishing brush 
may be applied afterward if desired. 

A few blossoms of this hibiscus might be wel- 
come just now to those of you, my boys, who 
intend to make calls on New Year's Day. 





By Sydney Dayre. 

N a bright, warm day, Su-sy car-ried her ba-by 

broth-er out to the great farm-yard. It was a ver-y 

pleas-ant place. A large barn stood at one side of it, 

and near this was a poul-try-house. The chick-ens, ducks, 

and geese used to come out of it to stray a-bout the large 

grass-y lot. And in one cor-ner was a nice clear pond. 

Su-sy knew she should fthd ma-ny pret-ty things out 
here, and that Ba-by would like to see them too. She 
walked a-round till the lit-tle pet got sleep-y, and laid 
his head on her shoul-der. Then she car-ried him to a 
long, low shed, where the sheep and cat-tie were fed in 
win-ter. There was some hay in a man-ger; she laid him 
on it, and, sit-ting be-side him, sang soft-ly. This is what 
she sang : 

" Whatwill you give, 
What will )'Ou give. 
For my lit-tle ba-by fair? 
Noth-ing is bright as his 

bon-ny blue eyes, 
Or soft as his curl-ing hair, 

"What will you bring, 
What will you 
To trade for my 

treas-ure here ? 
No one can show 

me a thing so 

A-ny-where, far or 


" Moo, moo-oo 
some-thing not far from Su- 
sy. " You think that 's so, 
do you?" And Mad-am Jer-sey Cow looked ver-y doubt- ful-ly at Ba-by. 
Said she : " Can he kick up his heels, and frol-ic all o-ver the yard ?" 




" Why, no," saitl Su-sy ; " he can't walk yet." 

" Ah ; how old is he ? " — " Near-ly a year old," said Su-sy. 

" Near-ly a year! My child walked be-fore she was two days old!" 
The cow gave a scorn-ful sniff, and walked off with-out an-oth-er look. 

" Baa-aa," said an old sheep, walk-ing up with a snow-white, down-y 
lamb. " Let me see. He is a nice lit-tle thing, sure e-nough. But has 
he only two legs?" — "That 's all," said Su-sy. 

" Then mine is worth twice as much, of course. If you had Iwo ba-bies, 

now, we might make a 
bar-gain. But he seems 
to have no wool ? " 

" No, ma'am," said 

Su-sy, " but see what 

pret-ty curl-y hair he has." — " I don't think I would wish to trade, 

thank you," and she and her lamb trot- ted a- way and went to eat grass. 

" Quack ! quack ! quack ! Let me take a look," and Mrs. Duck flew up 

on the edge of the man-ger. 

" His feet don't look as if he 'd make a good swim-mer," she said, look- 
ing at Ba-by's pink dim-pled toes. 

" Oh, he can't swim at all," said .Su-sy. 

" Good-bye," said Mrs. Duck. " All my dar-lings can swim." 
" Chip ! chip ! chip ! " was the ne.xt sound Su-sy heard. From its nest in 
an old elm-tree which stood near, a rob-in flew down, and perched on the 
end of a pitch-fork. She turned her head from side to side, gaz-ing at 
Ba-by in a ver-y wise way. '' What can he sing?" said she. 

" Oh, he can't sing at all yet," said Su-sy; "he 's too lit-tle." 




"Too lit-tle ! " ex-claimed Mrs. Red- 
breast. " Why, he 's tre-men-dous! Can't 

he sing, ' Fee 

— fee — hl-ly 
— fil-ly — weet 

— weet ? " 
" No, no, "said 

"All my chil- 
dren sang well 
Has he lit-tle 
red feath - ers 
on his breast?'^ 
" No," said 

" I should n't like to hurt your feel-ings, but you see how much I should 
lose on an ex-change, and I 'm sure you would not wish that." 

" No, I should n't," said Su-sy. And Mrs. R. Red-breast flew a-way. 

"Cluck! cluck! cluck!" "Peep! peep!" Mrs. White Leg-horn Hen 

came a-long with her down-y chicks. No won-der she fussed and fumed 

and cack-led at such a rate, Su-sy thought, with twelve ba-bies to look af-ter! 

" I have n't much time to look," said the hen, "and I should hard-ly be 

will-ing to trade. Can your ba-by say 'peep — peep' when he 's hun-gry?"^ 

"When he 's hun-gry he cries — but not 'peep — peep,'" said Su-sy. 

" I see his legs are not yel-low, ei-ther, so I '11 bid you a ver-y good 

af-ter-noon." Off she went, ruf-fling- her feath-ers, and cluck-ino- and 

scratch-ing till Su-sy laughed a-loud. 

"I don't won-der you laugh," purred some-thing near her. Su-sy 
turned in great sur-prise. There, at the oth-er end of the man-ger, in a 
co-zy cor-ner, was her old gray cat. That was n't all. There were three 




lit-tlc kits ; a white one, a black one, and a gray one. Su-s)- had not 
seen them be-fore, and she fond-led them lov-ing-ly. 

"She's so proud be-cause she has twelve !" said Mrs. Puss, look-ing 
af-ter Mrs. \V. L. Hen. " Now / think a small fam-i-Iy is much bet-ter 
— three, for in-stance. Don't you think three e-nough ? " 

" In-deed," said Su-sy, " I think one 's e-nough ; if it 's teeth-ing." 

" Mine nev-er have trou-blc with their teeth. And per-haps I can 
nev-er teach your l)a-by to purr, or to catch mice. Still, I be-lieve I '11 
take him, and let you have one kit-ten, as I ha\e three." 

"Oh, no; )ou don't un-der-stand me," cried .Su-sy. "I don't want to 
change at all. I 'd rath-er have my Ht-tle broth-er than a-ny-thing else 
in the world." But Mrs. Puss took hold of him as if to car-ry him off. 

Ba-by gave a scream, and then Su-sy a-woke! Then she looked 

a-round with a laugh, as she thought of all she had seen and heard ia 
her dream, since she had sung her-self to sleep be-side the ba-by. 

Mad-am Puss sat by a hole 
watch-ing for rats. There was n't 
a kit-ten a-ny-where. Mrs. Hen 
was fum-ing and cack-ling and 
scratch-ing hard-er than ev-er, but 

Puss did not seem to care wheth-er she had twelve chick-ens or a hun-dred. 
The calf was feed-ing qui-et-ly by its mam-ma, and the sheep and her 




lamb lay un-der the old elm. And up in the branch-es Su-sy could hear 
Mrs. Red-breast teach-ing her bird-ies to sing. 

So then Su-sy ran up to the house and found sup-per wait-ing. 

Ba-by held out his arms and was soon on his moth-er's lap, as hap-py as 
could be. Su-sy looked at him and said : " God has made ev-er-y-bod-y 
and ev-er-y-thing love their own ba-bies best, has n't he, Mam-ma ? " 

" Yes. We would rath-er take care of our ba-by than a-ny oth-er, would 
n't we?" "Yes, in-deed," said Su-sy. And as she rocked the ba-by's cra- 
dle that night, she fin-ished her lit-tle song in this way : 

" Noth-ing will do, noth-ing will do ; — you may trav-el the world a-round. 
And nev-er, in earth, or sea, or air, will a ba-by like him be found." 


Dear Old and New Readers: We ask, in this beautiful holiday 
season, to call your attention afresh to Willie Herrick's proposition 
for founding a Garfield Country Home for Sick Children. You will 
find his letter on page 84 of the November number of St. Nicholas 
(which opens the present volume), and from the same page you will 
learn what St. Nicholas and The Century Co. propose, with 
your help, to do toward carrying out Willie's suggestion. Mean- 
time, it is enough to say that this movement has no connection with 
our late President or his family, beyond the adoption of his beloved 
name, in the belief that the boys and girls of America will be glad to 
honor his memory by helping to do a great practical good. This 
magazine circulates mainly among what are called the well-to-do 
classes. Its young readers have comfortable homes and loving 
friends to make life bright for them : the children of the poor have 
almost no pleasures and much suffering. Yet, in God's sight, they 
are own brothers and sisters to you all ! 

As stated in our November number, The Century Co,, publishers 
of St. Nicholas, have volunteered to receive and credit all subscrip- 
tions for the Garfield Home that may be sent them — \vith the under- 
standing that if the total amount subscribed should prove insufficient 
to found a home, it shall be applied as a " Children's Garfield Fund " 
to the benefit of "The Poor Children's Summer Home," or some 
kindred charity of New York City. Letters and subscriptions may 
be addressed to The Century Co., Union Square, New York. 
The subscriptions up to this date amount to more than three hun- 
dred dollars. But why should they not amount to more than three 
thousand ? Children's pennies can do wonders. Dimes and quarter- 
dollars soon grow into a big sum when earnest young heads and 
hands set to work. The smallest single subscriptions will be wel- 
come and duly recorded; but we would suggest that it is an excel- 
lent plan for young folks in any locality to band together and send in 
their united subscriptions. One little group already has sent in fifty 
dollars in this way. The present and back volumes of St. Nicholas 
contain many home or school plays and entertainments, such as 
" The Acting Ballad of Mary Jane," " Puppet and Shadow Plays," 
"Johnny Spooner's Menagerie," "The Land of Nod," etc., etc., 
by which little folks can earn money for charitable purposes, and give 
their friends a good time besides. 

We shall be glad to see the boys' and girls' contributions amount 
to a great deal of money this winter, all to be turned in time into 
comfort and joy for poor and suffering little ones. 

The replies to the September " Invitation to our Readers" are as 
gratifying to us as they are creditable to the senders. A large num- 
ber of boys and girls, of all ages, have sent in letters, telling us, in 

frank, hearty, boy-and-girl fashion, just the stories and pictures 
they liked best, and of what special things they wished to have more. 
On this latter point, there were almost as many requests as there 
were senders, but this result is precisely the one we had hoped for, 
and were most glad to see. For it proves that, of the vast army of 
children who read St. Nicholas, each reader finds a considerable 
part of every number exactly suited to his or her tastes. This is as 
it should be, and all our readers must remember that St. Nicholas 
is the servant and friend of young folk of all classes and ages from 
seven to seventeen. If it undertook to please only the little ones 
under ten, not only would older girls and boys who are still young 
enough to need and enjoy a magazine of their own, find it too young 
and simple for their tastes, but the wee folk themselves would soon 
outgrow it. Nor is this all. You will find that, in this hurrying, 
busy, nineteenth-century life of ours, your present tastes will change 
or new tastes develop more rapidly than you can now imagine, and 
St. Nicholas, if it is to be truly your magazine, must keep pace 
with, and even anticipate, your growth. Thus, Master A. B. writes 
that he " wants more adventure-stories. He likes them more than 
everything else." He and all the rest shall have these, but in a 
year or two. Master A. B. will find that there is much more in good 
literature, and in the daily needs of his own life, than the finest and 
longest adventure-stories that ever were written ; and then, though 
he will still, we hope, keep the natural and proper liking for such 
stories that we all possess, and that it would be a misfortune for any 
boy of spirit to lose, yet he will begin to cast about for stories of 
another kind as well — tales like the "Stories of Art and Artists," or 
"Talks with Boys" — stories that will feed the new taste which has 
been bom within him, for information and advice to help him forward 
and prepare him for an active share in the work of the world. And 
then he will understand clearly that the papers we have named and 
the others like them — though good for all who read them — are meant 
for boys a^d girls who are already in the mood we have described. 
And that there are many young folk in that mood, he would believe 
soon enough if he saw in how many of these letters special practical 
and descriptive papers are requested. 

Nevertheless, young friends, we do not mean by all this that the 
requests which you have made will not be acceded to, or receive due 
attention. They have already been helpful to us in many ways, and 
many of the suggestions heartily commend themselves to our judg- 
ment And we hope that, sooner or later, each one will find his or 
her request answered, as far as possible, in the pages of the maga- 
zine, — not only the big boys and girls, but the little ones also. Mean- 
while, we send our hearty thanks to the young writers, one and all, 
for the frankness, clearness, and uniform courtesy of their replies. 
So nearly all of our young friends have closed their letters with the 




sentence, "We do not sec how St. Nichoi^s could be improved," 
that we can not help quoting it, because of the satisfaction it gives 
us. But wc shall not be content ourselves until it is better than it 
has ever been, or than the boys and girts now conceive. 

Many thanks, young friends and old, for the very liberal response 
to our request for games. It is impossible at present to make a 
detailed report concerning the different games described. Let it 
suffice to say that those meeting our needs shall appear in St. Nich- 
oi-AS, and that all matter printed shall be duly paid for, beyond the 
hearty thanks that wc again extend 
to one and all who have endeav- 
ored to help the good cause of 
home-amusement. In cases where 
several descriptions of the same 
game have been received, we shall, 
of course, select the best. 

as young England, is fitly called "At Home." Entering at the open 
door-way on its bright title-page, you tread your happy way through 
a wealth of appropriate colored pictures and lively rhymes of home 
life, stopping often to specially admire some exquisite bit of decora- 
tion or rich effect of color, until, at the very last page, you leave a 
closed door behind you, still rejoicing in the "come again " tone of 
its mellow "good-bye." To describe filly this charming "At 
Home " would require more space than can be afforded. Suffice it 
to say, it is illustrated by J. G. Sciwerhy, beautifully decorated by 
Thomas Crane, elder brother of Walter Crane, and that all little 
boys and girls cverj-whcre arc cordially invited to be present. 

Thk picture of "A Future Doge," 
on page 207 of this number, is cop- 
ied from a painting by M. Carolus 
Duran, one of the most popular of 
living F"rcnch port rait -painters. 

As many of you know, " Doge" 
was the title of the chief magistrate 
of the Republic of Venice, and for 
centuries the Doges ruled the fa- 
mous city with great magnificence 
and nearly absolute power. Wc 
have already given you an account 
in St. Nicholas (sec "The Queen 
of the Sea," September, 1880) of the 
imposing ceremony with which the 
Doge married the city to the sea 
by dropping a ring into the waves 
of the Adriatic. 

The little fellow shown in the 
picture — though interesting, in- 
deed, when we think of the great 
future that is in store for him — 
does not differ much in face and 
expression from many little fellows 
of our own day. Hut the rich cos- 
tume and the heavy roses are fit 
emblems of the magnificence to 
which he is to attain when he be- 
comes a Doge. 

Bv the courtesy of Messrs. Mar- 
cus Ward & Co., of Christmas-card 
fame, wc show you on this page a 
reduced drawing of one of the very 
prettiest pictures in their new holi- 
day-book, now coming from the 
press. This dainty volume, which 
will delight young America as well 


The correspondence of the past month shows a deeper interest in 
our work and in the progress of the society than that of any pre- 
vious month for a long lime. The reports from the various chapters 
have been more carefully prepared, the work done by members has 
been more satisfactory, and the number of letters has been greater. 
Between thirty and forty letters arc lying before me as I write, and 
all of these have been laid aside from day to day, as containing some- 
tliing of special interest for our January report. They have been 
answered by mail, but they each contain something which may 
prove of value to other members of the society. 

Since the ninth report, the following new chapters have been 
added to our roll : 





Milford, Mass. (A) 

So. Boston, Mass. (A) . 

Camden, N. J. (A) 

Auburn, N. Y. (A) 

Washington, D. C. (C). 

New York, N. Y. (D). . . 
Minneapolis, Minn. (A) . 

118. Brisiow, Iowa (A). 

Members. Secretary's Address. 

5 . .Chas. F. Hicks, Box 643. 

.W. O. Hersey, 20 Mercer st. 
6. .Mabel Adams. 
4. .Sadie E. Robb. 
/..Emily Newcomb, 1336 iiih 

street, N. W. 
6. .Gustav Guska, 223 E. i8th st. 
20.. Jennie Hughes, 1816 FourtK 

Ave. N. 
4.. John B. Playter. 

Reports from Chapters. 

The secretary of Chapter 113 writes : Wc consist of four girls 
and two boys. We have our own collections instead of a commoa 




cabinet. We had our first meeting April 30, but I did not send word 
then, as I wanted to accomplish something before writing to you. 
Do you think anything can be learned frum a globe of fish? I get 
caterpillars and keep them in litde wooden boxes, with glass on top 
and in front. I send some drawings of the scales on the wings of 
some moths and butterflies. I examined them through a compound 
microscope. Will you tell me what you think of them ? 

[I think they are very well done, and if all our members who can 
think of "nothing to do in winter" would do Hkewise, and send me 
the results for comparison and study, would n't it be "splendid" ?] 

We have several beetles, green, black, and various other colors. 
They were all picked up on the beach after the tide had washed 
them up. I think this shows that they were flying over the sea and 
became tired and were drowned. 

John R. Blake, N. Y. (C), 26 W. 19th street. 

Under date of September 23, Chapter 112 says, " per secretary " : 

We have adopted the general constitution and the following 
by-laws : 

F/rs^. We shall meet once a week at the houses of members. 

Second. Persons wishing to join shall pay an initiation fee of five 

Third. The term of office is six weeks. 

Fourih. A fee of five cents a month shall be paid by members. 

We wish to exchange eggs. W. Hersev. 

Lowell, Mass., Sept. 29. 
I have the pleasure of informing you that the Lowell Chapter has 
"begun its work. I noticed in St. Nicholas for August that you 
have given our president's name instead of the secretary's, which is 
Frank A. Hutchinson, 25 Nesmlth street. 

Chapter 106 writes : Our Chapter is doing quite well. We have 
some quartz, limestone, granite, slate, and gypsum. We have a 
number of butterflies, an Ad7?iiral, mud-butterfly, etc. Just now 
we are collecting nuts. Robert M. Rovce. 

[Robert is one of the youngest but most enthusiastic of our mem- 

New York, Sept. 28th, 1881. 

Our Chapter is progressing admirably. We organized last May 
with five members, and have since increased to sixteen. We have a 
large and very fine collection of curiosities. All our members take 
an eager interest, and our meetings are always well attended and 
very interesting. Several elderly gentlemen have taken great inter- 
est in us, and we have induced one of them to join. We wish to 
know how to keep a number of painted tortoises {Ckrysemys pkta) 
and speckled tortoises (Nannemys guttata) through the winter. 
Edward B. Miller, 244 Madison street. 

[It is gratifying to hear of the older ones' interest in our work.] 

Taunton, Mass., Sept. 29. 
We were obliged to adjourn until September, during vacation, but 
though there were no meetings, you may be sure that the members 
were not idle ; there were sea-mosses, shells, and sponges to be col- 
lected, insects to be caught, excursions into the woods and hills after 
fungi and minerals ; and the curator had a busy time after our return 
in the fall. Some of the papers which have been read were on the 
Tollowing subjects: The Red-tailed Hawk, Baltimore Oriole, The 
Late Comet, Magnolia Tree, The Family of Herons. 

Harrie G. White. 

Chicago, Oct. 2, 1881. 
We have again come together for winter work after the pleasant- 
est summer, according to the unanimous expression, ever spent; 
simply because we have had our eyes open to the beauties of Nature. 
We have numerous specimens and notes, so that we can do good 
work when the weather grows too cold for outdoor meetings. Will 
you please reprint the name of our chapter, " Chicago B," with my 
address as secretary? C. S. Brown, 117 Park Avenue. 

Castle Bank, Stroud, England. 
Our Chapter is getting on pretty well, but we really are in want of 
some questions to answer. We are all inclined to continue our 
meetings through the winter. We have had a badge from the first, 
made of crimson cloth, with the letters "A. A." embroidered in 
white silk for the members, and in golden silk for the officers. 

Gertrude Ruegg. 

Frankford, Philadelphia, Pa. 
We are heartily in favor of a general meeting, and if it were 
arranged, we should send delegates to it. At our last meeting, James 
Johnson read a paper on " Instruments used in taking and prepar- 
ing Lepidoptera." The substance of it I send to you. * ' * . 
He says that cyanide of potassium should not be used in killing bees 
and other Hymenoptera, as it changes their yellow to crimson. 

R. T. Taylor, 131 Adams street. 

No. Cambridge, Mass., Oct. 3. 

We hold meetings once in two weeks. We assign for each meet- 
ing a topic, to be looked up in advance by the members. We have 
already had : First. What is an insect? Second. Classes of Insects. 
Third. Lepidoptera. Fourth. Coleoptera : and so on with the differ- 
ent classes. After this we are to have a separate topic given to each 
member for the sake of variety. We have not thought much of a 
badge, but a plain one is the best. 

On August i4lh we found several tomato-worms, perfectly healthy 
in appearance. In a week they had totally changed color. They 
were then black, the stripes being whitish yellow. Some are covered 
with dots. The latter have a greenish head with brown stripes, the 
others black heads with green stripes. They ate as usual, but when 
they died they collapsed, there being nothing in them. There were 
no ichneumons in the box. Who will explain the change of color? 

Fred. E. Keav. 

Utopia, N. Y., Allegheny Co. 
We have decided to take daily notes of what we find of interest 

Robert Kenvon. 
[A most excellent plan.] 

Chicago, Oct. 3, 1881.^ 
We are going to take a note of all the incidents in natural his- 
tory, as you recommended in your seventh report. We have 
stuffed a red squirrel. We meet every Saturday, at half past nine. 
The meeting usually lasts about three hours. We hope before long 
to buy a good microscope and a small library. We are very much 
interested in the badge question, and think that a white silk badge, 
with a monogram and some object in natural history worked in 
colored silk upon it, would be pretty. We are none over fourteen 
years. Nelson Bennett, 65 Cicero street. 

Minneapolis, Minn., Oct. 14. 
About twenty boys and girls of MinneapoHs have formed a chap- 
ter of the Agassiz Association. They all show a great deal of 
interest in it, and I think that other chapters will be formed here 
before long. 

Jennie Hughes, Secretary, 1816 Fourth Avenue, North. 

All the reports from which the above short extracts are made are 
excellent. They are carefully composed, and for the most part 
handsomely written. They show that our society has a firm hold on 
the hearts of its members. But we wish that every member of the 
"A. A." could see the beautiful report that we have just received 
from the Berwyn (Penn.) Chapter, dated October 7. It is the most 
elegant in appearance of any yet sent. I give a few quotations: 

The Chapter now numbers fifteen active and two honorary mem- 
bers. Weekly meetings have been held since our organization, with 
two exceptions — one on the night when the body of President Gar- 
field was being moved to Cleveland for burial, and the other on the 
night of July 22d, the day of our annual picnic. [Here follows a 
list of fifty-four species of minerals collected, of seventeen varieties 
of wood, and of about fifty miscellaneous specimens.] Microscopic 
examinations were made of moss, humblebees' wings and legs, 
human hair, small red spiders, scales of mica, clear crystals, and 
spiders' eggs. At each meeting questions are asked and answered. 
A scrap-book has been procured, in which are entered the reports 
from the parent society as they are published, and scraps from 
papers and periodicals bearing on natural history. On July 22d the 
Chapter held a picnic. Fifteen members and ten invited guests were 
taken in carriages, buggies, and one hay-wagon (here is where the 
most fun was, dear Parent!) to Diamond Rocks, five miles from 
Berwyn. A full and delightfid day was spent. The rocks, rising to 
a height of fifty feet or more, furnished many fine specimens of 
quartz crystals. J. F. Glosser, Secretary. 

Exchanges Desired. 

Birds' eggs — D. S. Wing, 1221 Rock Island st., Davenport, Iowa. 

Correspondents on insects — Alex. C. Bates, St. Paul's School, 
Concord, N. H. 

Minerals — T. C. Thomas, Birchville, Nevada Co., California. 

Correspondents on ornithology — Daniel E. Moran, 85 State street, 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Skates' eggs and marine objects — Harrie G. White, Taunton, 

Eggs — T. Mills Clark, Southampton, Mass, 

Shells, minerals, etc. — Robert Kenyon, Utopia, N. Y. 

Correspondents and general exchanges — North Cambridge Chap- 
ter, F, E. Keay, Sec. 


1. How many eyes has a fly ? 

2. Name the smallest bird, and tell where it lives. 

3. How many teeth has the whale ? 

4. How many movable eyelids has a lizard ? 





5. Why arc some animals called qiiadnimana 1 

6. Why arc some animals called zoophytes ? 

7. Of what is granite composed T 

8. What IS a diamond ? 

9. What is the botanical name of the edelweiss, what is the literd 
meaning of its common name, and to what family does it belong ? 

10. Derivation of the name "cloves " ? 

We shall next month present for the consideration of our one 
hundred and twenty presidents a systematic plan of wuric for the 

rcinaii:'(n|p months of the year. Meantime, extend your ranks as 
widely a^ may be, get ihc dvist off your microscopes, and send me as 
many drtf^+vings of snow-cry st;»Is as possible. A prize for the best set 
of -six cards ^r more sent before April 1, in accordance with direc- 
tii>ns given ill our report for February, 1881. All members should 
re-read that Tt:p'Wt preparatory to the winter's work. The plan 
adopted by the Berwyn Chapter of keeping all these reports in a 
scrap-bouW is excellent. Address all communications to 

Harlan H. Ba4xa>>>^, Principal of Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. 

5 Syncopate a series of things linked together, and leave a part of 
the face. 6. Syncopate pertaining to the morning, and leave prin- 
cipal. 7. Syncopate religion and leave compassion. 8. Syncopate 
a fragrant, aromatic plant, and leave to free from water. 

M. C. D. 


7 - - 17 

• 8 18 • 

Zigzags, from i to 10 and from 11 to 30, each name a holiday 

Cross-words: i. Undermines. 2. To satisfy. 3. A girl's name. 
4. An abbreviation for " the present month." 5. To examine 
iloscly. 6. Continued pain, 7. Four-fifths of a sour firuit. 8. 
Without hair. 9. To praise. 10. Transgressions. 





Cut out these sections eight for me. 
And fiLshion them in letters three : 
In them a sentence you may find 
Descriptive of the three combined. 

What city is literally made by //me and Lzborf G. F. 


The syncopated letters, read in the order here given, spell the 
name of one who is callcti "the noblest of the ancients," and 
who was bom 468 n. c. 

I. Syncopate sprinkled with fine sand, and leave loyal perform- 
ance of obligation. 2. Syncopate a vehement and sudden outcry, 
and leave to close. 3. Syncopate a kind of nut, and leave a song of 
praise and triumph. 4. Syncopate an insect in the first stage after 
leaving the egg, and leave the substance ejected by a volcano. 

Take one-third of the letters in the month named after the Roman 
emperor who boasted that he found Rome made of brick and left 
it of marble ; one-fifth of the letters in the month which was first in 
the early Roman calendar; one-fifth of the letters in the month 
which, in Nero's time, was called Ncronius; one-fourth of the letters 
in the month which the Romans assigned to young men ; and one- 
half <»f the letters in the month originally called Quintilis. The 
letters represented by these fractions, when rightly selected and 
arranged, will spell the name of a month introduced by Numa Pom- 

piliuS. J- S. TENNANT. 


I AM composed of twenty-eight letters, and am a quotation from 
" Paradise Lost." 

My 8-3-21-9 is to pursue. My 22-7-17-11-27 is to direct. My 
19-10-20-5 is an exhibition. My 28-26-1 is the fruit of certain trees. 
^Iy 4-25-14-6-23 is one step of a serics._ My 12-24-16 is an 
affirmation. My 2-13-18-15 is to give audience to. 

EASY norm..E acrostic. 

The primals n.amc a division of the ycir; the finals pertain to 
the commencement of the year. 

Cross-words : i. K long spear. 2. Stem. 3. Of little breadth. 
4. A school for all the branches of learning. 5. A gladiator. 
6. Ensigns of royally. 7. A lad f. A. w. 






Trace a way through this maze, without crossing a, line, reai-h- 
ing at last the flags in the center. 


Centrals: A winter sport. Across: i. The highest militan- 
officer in France. 2. Roused from sleep. 3. To cause to tremblc 
4. In winter. 5. To pinch, 6. A dignitary of the church of Kii;^- 
land. 7. A species of drama originated by the Greeks. dycie. 


*' Scott" Double Acrostic. Primals, Betrothed. Finals, 
Monastery. Cross-words; i. BertraM. 2. ElchO. 3. TresilliaN. 
4. RebeccA. 5. OateS. 6. TalboT. 7. HermionE. 8. EdgaR. 9. 

DudleY. Double Cross-word Enigma, i. Knecht Rupert. 

2. Christmas-Day. 

Central Syncopations and Remainders. Sir Isaac Newton. 

I. Be-S-et. 2. Po-I-se. 3. St-R-op. 4. Lo-I-re. 5. Ha~S-te. 
6. Gr-A-in. 7. Sp-A-in. 8. Lu-C-re. 9. Mi-N-ce. 10. Ch-E-at. 

II. Se-W-er. 12. Me-T-re. 13. Fl-O-at. 14. La-N-ce. 
Numerical Enigma. God reigns, and the government at Wash- 
ington still lives. Riddle. Pearl. 

Pictorial Acrostic. Christmas Bells, i. C-oronation. 2. 
H-allucination. 3. R-elation. 4. I-nvitation. 5. S-alutation. 6. 
T-ribulation. 7. M-utilation. 8. A-ltercation. 9. S-aturation. 
10. B-otheration, 11. E-levation. 12. L.-amentation. 13. L-ibera- 
tion. 14. S-eparation. 

Holiday Anagrams, i. Heart — marl. 2. Chess. 3. Harm- 
charm. 4. Time — dime. 5. Maid — aid. 6. Dress. 7. Dim — 
I'im. 8. Smart — tart. 9. Hide — aside. 10. Matter — chatter. 
II. Me. 12. Share. 13. Hearts — tarts. 14, Christmas Tide. 

The names of solvers are printed in the second number after that 
in which the puzzles appear. 

Answers to all the puzzles in the November number were 
received, before November 20, from " Wallace of Uhlen " — Grace 
R. Ingraham — Charlie and Josie Treat — Grace E. Hopkins — 
" Uncle Dick"— Olive M. Potts — Herbert Barry — S. H.Wheeler 

— Two Subscribers — -Bessie and her Cousin -^ Chuck — Queen 
Bess — Firefly — Alcibiades — F. C. McDonald — Martha and Eva 
de la Guerra. 

Answers to puzzles in the November number were received, 
before November 20, from G. H. Fisher, i — Fancy Bright. 3 — 
Mignon, 4 — Weston Stickney, 7 — Katie L. Robertson, 2—" Profes- 
sor and Co.," 9 — Belle Wyman, i — E. U. Gene, 5— Rory O'More, 
4_Jeanneite Edith E., i — Clara L. Northway, 5— Effie K. Tal- 
boys. 8 — Eddie North Burdick, i — Gracie Smith, 2 — John W. 
Blanchard, 10 — Eleanor and Daisy Martin, 5 — Frank Scott Bun- 
nell, 2— Lyda P. Bostwick, 9— Minnie Blake, 6— Autumn, 2 — 
Charlie W. Power, 11— J. Ollie Gayley, 3— J. S. Tennani, 12 — 
" Olives and Pickles," 3 — "Warren," 3— "Hazel," 4 — P- S. 
Clarkson, 12 — Bessie Taylor, 4— Caro, Emma, and Spencer, 4 — 
Freddie Thwaits, 11 — Florence Leslie Kyte, 11 — Daisy M^, iz 

— Will and Lyde McKinney, 5 — "Mama an'1 Ba," 12 — Henry 
C. Brown. 12— Herbert J. Tily, 9 — G. J. an i F. L. Fiske, 11 — 
Alice Maud Kyte, 12 — Harriet L. Pruyn, 2 — Si»llie Viles, 11 — 
Anibella Ward, 2. The numerals denote the number of solutions. 



Vol. IX. 


No. 4. 

[Copyright, 1882, by The CENTURY CO.] 

ADVICNTURKS 01' I'RINCK X ]■ Z .\ II U .\ Lt(J V( )TL. 

Uv S.\RAH C. Very. 

Ever so many years ago, — long before white 
people came to America, — there lived, down in 
what we now call Mexico, a little Aztec prince 
named Nezahualcoyotl. A long, funny name, is it 
not? What do you suppose they called him "for 
short " ? 

But, in spite of such a long n.anie, he proved him- 
self, as he grew older, to be one of the bravest 
princes and brightest boys of whom history tells, — 
as an American prince should be. 

Great kings, although they have beautiful palaces 
to live in, and everything to make them happy, 
endure heavy cares of government which at times 
make them gloomy and sad ; yet one would imag- 
ine that a boy prince, too young to assume respon- 
sibilities, would have no other care than to do 
right, and be happy. But poor Nezahualcoyotl 
had more cares than you imagine. 

A few years before this story opens, his father 
had been killed in a terrible battle, and, soon after, 
a wicked uncle named Moxtla was crowned king, 
although he knew that Nezahualcoyotl was right- 
fully the ruler. And when the boy's friends advised 
him to hide from Mo.\tla, who, of course, jealously 
watched his movements, the lad said: "Why, 
surely, he will not be unkind to me ! " 

So, on the coronation day, when everybody was 
gayly dressed, and a great banquet was to be held 
at the palace, Nezahualcoyotl dressed himself in 
his best and went bravely to the new king's dwell- 
ing to offer his congratulations. 

But when the crowd stepped aside to let him 
approach his uncle, and when he knelt down and 
Vol. IX.— 18. 

said,"Uncle, I hope you will behappy," and handed 
him a bouquet of flowers, his uncle turned rudely 
away and began talking with his officers. By 
this, Nezahualcoyotl knew that his uncle was un- 
friendly to him, and he hurried, as friends advised 
him, to a palace in a distant part of the country. 

One bright morning, soon after, the prince was 
playing ball in the palace court-yard, and as he 
was laughing and tossing the plaything against 
the wall, an attendant came running up, and said: 

"Oh, sir, there are some armed men coming from 
the king ! " And after pausing to catch his breath, 
he said, "Oh, hide, or they will kill you ! — quick!" 

The prince turned very pale at this, but, quieting 
his friends and attendants, he showed them how 
foolish it would be to show his fright at this time, 
and urged them to stand by him. 

In a few ininutes up came the armed men, with 
the feathers on their heads nodding in the wind, and 
they were all ready to kill the prince, although he 
had done no harm. 

But he stepped forward to greet them, and wel- 
comed them to his palace, and invited them to 
dine with him. Being treated so courteously, they 
walked in, and soon were seated at the table. 

Now, among the Mexicans (or Aztecs) of those 
days, it was a mark of respect to burn incense 
when great men were visiting at a house; so, be- 
fore long, the incense began to send up its curling 
wreaths of smoke in the door-way leading to the 
next room, while Nezahualcoyotl politely enter- 
tained his cruel guests. 

As he talked pleasantly with them, and they 




were enjoying the meal, he quietly rose, and saying 
"Excuse me a moment," passed into the next 
room. The doors were wide open, so that his 
enemies did not suspect anything at his departure. 

But, as the servants fed the fire of the incense, 
the clouds of smoke became denser and denser, 
and completely hid Nezahualcoyotl from the 
feasters. Glancing back through the wavering 
clouds of incense at his enemies, he saw them 
dreamily watching the curling smoke, and evidently 
not thinking of his movements. So he quietly 
opened a door, and there close by it lay a long 
pipe, through which water formerly had been 
brought to the palace, but which had been for 
some time unused. Softly closing the door behind 
him, he quickly dropped into the long dark pipe, 
and lay there safely hidden until night-fall, when 
he came out, and with some faithful followers 
hurried far away from his persecutors. 

Now just think how angry Moxtla must have 
been when he heard of this — and how severely he 
would punish the men he had sent to kill the 
Prince Nezahualcoyotl. He immediately pro- 
claimed that an enormous prize would be given to 
any one who would bring the prince to him, dead 
or alive. 

Therefore poor Nezahualcoyotl was compelled, 
with a small band of friends, to wander about in 
the night over high mountains, and across lonely 
plains ; and seldom in day-time could he safely 
venture out, for, as he knew, many persons in all 
parts of the country were vigilantly watching to 

capture him. Poor boy ! He continually urged 
his faithful followers to leave him, lest they should 
endanger their own lives. But they refused, for 
they loved him ; and, indeed, even the cruel sol- 
diers of his uncle thought of the little prince with 

And this was a fortunate thing for him. For, 
one day, as he lay concealed in some bushes, he 
heard the tramp of many feet, and saw the soldiers 
in the distance. 

Nearer and nearer they came, until about sunset 
they pitched their tents close to the hidden prince, 
and ended the day by a lively dance. The keen 
glance of one of the soldiers spied the poor prince 
trying to hide among the bushes near by. Quick 
as a flash the kind-hearted fellow picked him 
up and put him into the great drum, and while the 
other soldiers in a ring around the camp-fire were 
noisily singing, they little knew how snugly the 
long-desired prize, for which they had traveled so 
far, lay concealed at their very feet. 

And at last a change came for both the wicked 
uncle and the young prince. Men tired of Mox- 
tla's severity and cruelty, and lamented the alter- 
ation since the peaceful rule of Nezahualcoyotl's 
father. Then they thought of the prince, and 
resolved to fight for him. 

Gladly he received this good news, and return- 
ing with his faithful followers, he fought a great 
battle ; and being so fortunate as to gain the vic- 
tory, he was crowned king, and reigned over 
Mexico for years afterward, a wise and good ruler. 


I MIGHT begin, "The rose is red" 
(Though that is not so very new), 

Or this the boys all think is good: 
"If you love me as 1 love you." 

But, — seems to me, — a valentine 

Is nicer, when you do not say 
The same old things that every one 

Keeps saying, in the same old way. 

And I asked Jane, the other night. 

What grown-up [leople write about. 
She would not answer me at first. 

But laughed till 1 began to pout. 
That stopped her, for she saw I meant 

The question (and she will not tease). 
Why — love," she said, "and shining eyes, 

A kiss, soft hair — just what they please.' 

It can't be hard, if that is all. 
So I '11 begin by saying this : 

To my dear lady beautiful, 

I send a 7'alentine and kiss. 
The valentine, because she has 

The loveliest hair and gentlest eyes. 
The kiss, because I love her more 

Than any one beneath the skies; 
Because she is the kindest, best. 

The sweetest lady ever knoivn; 
And every year I 'II say the same. 

The very same, to her alone/ 

There! Now it 's finished. Who will do? 

I 've thought of one and then another. 
Who is there like it? Why, of course, 

I '11 send it right awav to Mother ! 




Hv Sophie Swett. 

" He might have come from the moon, for all I 
know," said Deborah, rather crossly. She was 
sprinkling and folding the clothes for to-morrow's 
ironing, and she wanted to get them done before 
her "beau" should come, to take her to drive, 
and the tramp had hindered her; and now Jack 
was asking questions. 

Deborah often declared that if ever she "hired 
out " again, it would be "with folks that did n't 
allow their children to ask so many questions as the 
little Mudgetts asked. She was all wore to skin 
and bone with them." 

As Deborah w;is very buxom and rosy, she 
evidently intended that remark to be taken in a 
figurative sense ; but the children Wftv trying, 
with their endless questions, — especially Jack, the 
oldest boy, who never believed anything. 

Stella, the youngest girl, believed everything. 
She never had the slightest doubt that all the won- 
derful things related in the Arabian Nights, Grimm's 
Goblins, and Mother Goose, actually happened. 
Stella was Deborah's favorite. She was her uncle 
John's favorite, too, and Uncle John was of great 
consequence, because he was the captain of a ves- 
sel, and had been all around the world. He was 
expected home in a few days from a long voyage, 
and all the children lay awake nights storing up 

c|UCstions to ask him. He always would tell Stella 
stories, when he would not tell them to anybody 
else, because she never asketl him if they were 
true. She asked him everything she could think 
of, but she never thought of that. 

Jack had only asked Deborah « ho it was that 
had knocked at the door; what he wanted; of 
what country he had seemed to be a native ; if he 
was well dressed ; what he had on ; if he had been 
drinking ; if he had a bundle with him ; if he 
wanted to stay all night ; if he wanted anything to 
eat; if he got anything; if she asked him in; what 
she thought his name was; if he had a red nose ; 
if his hair was curly ; and where she thought he 
came from. And he did n't think that Deborah 
ought to be so cross, as if he had asked many ques- 
tions ! 

Jack coiiM ask questions when be tried, but he 
had not got fairly under way then. 

Stella came into the kitchen with her doll, Cin- 
derella, under her arm, Just as Deborah said that. 
The little girl was going to sprinkle and fold Cin- 
derella's clothes, which were always washed on 
Monday, and ironed on Tuesday, just like any- 
body's. But she forgot all about the clothes when 
she heard Deborah say there was a possibility 
that the man came from the moon. Stella was 




very much interested in the moon. As she firmly 
believed it to be made of green cheese, and also 
that one man lived in it, her interest is scarcely to 
be wondered at. 

"Oh, Deborah, was it really the Man in the 
Moon ? " she cried. 

"Well, I should n't wonder," said Deborah, and 
she laughed a little, though shea^rt.? cross. "Come 
to think of it, he did inquire the way to Norwich. 
And he seemed terrible hungr)', as if he had come 
a long journey. " 

"Did you give him anything to eat?" asked 

" I gave him a piece of bread that he could eat 
if he was hungry. I aint a-goin' to pamper up 
tramps with my best victuals that I 've wore my 
fingers to the bone a-cookin' of," said Deborah. 

"No cheese? Oh, Deborah!" said Stella, re- 

Of course the Man in the Moon was accustomed 
to eating cheese, since his dwelling-place was made 
of it, — and he might miss it very much. It was 
Stella's opinion that Deborah ought to have thought 
of that. 

And why, oh, why, did n't Deborah ask him to 
come in ! To think of coming so near to seeing 
the Man in the Moon, and missing it ! It was very 
cruel of Deborah. 

" Did he look much like ordinar\- people, 
Deborah ? " asked Stella. 

"Come to think of it, he favored a pirate, as 
much as anything," said Deborah. " Though that 
might 'a' ben owin' to his havin' but one eye, and 
that one kind of squinty." 

" Do you think he was a cross man, Deborah ? " 
asked Stella, after a moment of deep meditation. 

" I don't know nothin' about the dispositions of 
folks in the moon. I 've got all I can do to con- 
tend against the tryin' dispositions of them here 
below," said Deborah. 

"There aint any folks in the moon ! " said Jack, 
diving his head into the clothes-basket, and turn- 
ing a somersault. " If there was, they 'd all be like 
busted balloons; there is n't any air there. Stella 
believes everything." 

" It 's boys that don't believe nothin' that comes 
to the gallows," said Deborah, severely. 

Meantime, Stella had slipped into the wood- 
shed, to see if she could catch a glimpse of the 
man's retreating figure, from the door. 

Oh joy ! there he sat at the end of the wood- 
pile, only a few rods away. 

Stella went into the pantr>-, and got a huge 
piece of cheese ; then she ran out, and sat down on 
a log, opposite him. She was at quite a distance 
from the house, it was growing dark, and the man 
did look rather cross, but Stella was never afraid 

of anything — excepting thunder and curly dogs. 
Everybody has his weak points, and those were 
Stella's. She did not once think of being afraid of 
the Man from the Moon, though she did hope that 
he was n't cross, because cross people would never 
answer all the questions that one wanted to ask. 

She sat and stared at him for a minute or two, 
the big piece of cheese in one hand, and Cinder- 
ella, held by the heels, in the other. She was 
casting about in her mind for some suitable way of 
addressing him ; being entirely ignorant of the 
etiquette of the moon, she was afraid of seeming 
impolite. But at length, nothing better occurring 
to her, she said, blandly : 

"How do you do, man?" 

The man responded, civilly, but rather gruffly, 
that he was " as well as poor folks could expect to 

" I suppose you don't have bread at home," 
remarked Stella. 

" Not much, that 's a fact," said the man. 

" But if you live on cheese entirely, wont you 
eat the moon all up some day, and tumble down to 
the ground ? " That was a problem that had been 
troubling Stella ever since she had first heard that 
the moon was made of cheese. 

The man gave her a rather puzzled look, and 
laughed a little. "Eat the moon up ? Well, I be 
hunger-bitten enough to do it, sometimes, that 's 
a fact. And I 'm pesky fond of cheese. I like the 
looks of that 'ere piece in your hand." 

" I brought it on purpose for you," said Stella, 
presenting it, and making a low bow, to show her 
respect for so e.xalted a personage as the Man from 
the Moon. 

The man devoured the cheese, with such great 
hungry bites that she was more than ever con- 
vinced that it was his natural food. 

"How did you come down?" was her next 

"Well, I come down on a broomstick, but I 'm 
going home around by the way of Norwich," he 

On a broomstick ! Stella wanted to ask him 
whether he was any relation to the old woman who 
went up on one to sweep the cobwebs from the sky, 
but she was afraid it would not be quite polite. 
She might be only a poor relation, of whom such a 
great man would not wish to be reminded. But, 
surely, there could not be many people who could 
ride on broomsticks ! She and Percy, her young- 
est brother, had tried it, and they had n't gone up 
a bit. 

She was anxious to ask no questions that were 
not strictly polite, so she was very slow and 

" Have you any children?" 




" Four on 'em," answered the man. between his 

" Four ! Th.-it is very few; there are nine of us. 
But perhaps it is just as well ; they might fall off." 

"Fall off?" repeated the man, with a start. 
" Fall off of what? How come you to know " 

"Why, off the moon, of course ; you live in the 
moon, don't you?" 

The man gave her a long, puzzled look ; then he 
tapped his forehead, significantly, with his fore- 
finger. " Tctched, as sure as you 're born!" he 
said to himself " Though I never did see sich a 
little one tctched. Mcbbc the big one, give 
me the dry bread, was loony, too ; that might be 

from the man all the infonnation possible, and to 
use it to convince Jack. 

" What kind of cheese is green cheese ? " she in- 

" Well, it is sage cheese," answered the man, 
after some deliberation. " Cheese with so much 
sage into it that it is kind of greenish complected, 
so to speak." 

" That is what Percy and I thought !" cried 
Stella. " But Uncle John thought it was new 

" There 's nobody knows much about the moon, 
but them as lives there," said the man, in a tone 
and manner full of mystery. 


what made her sich a spitfire. It might be a lu- 
natic hospital ; " and he arose and looked back at 
the house, reflectively. 

" Oh yes, I live in the moon," he said, seating 
himself again. " Sartingly, I live in the moon." 

A shadow of painful doubt been creeping 
into Stella's mind; he so very much like other 
people : his manners were not elegant, and he was 
very badly dressed ; but his own assertion was satis- 
factory. She heaved a great sigh of relief. Only 
the fear that he would vanish before she could 
return prevented her from going in search of Jack, 
the unbelieving, who certainly would have to be- 
lieve now, she thought. She resolved to extract 

"It must be very funny. Hut you h.ivc n 't burst, 
have you? You don't look very limpsy. Jack 
says people there must be just like my balloon 
after he stuck a pin into it, because there is n't 
any air in the moon." 

"Air? bless you, there 's air enough ! Air and 
water — that 's about all there is that 's plenty where 
I live !" and the man laughed harshly. 

Stella resolved to enlighten Jack on that point, 
the very first thing. 

Presently, she asked: "Did you see the cow 
when she jumped over?" 

That was another important point on which Stella 
wished to obtain testimony, for Jack boldly declared 

2 70 



his opinion that Mother Goose was not a faithful 

"The cow? Cows bein' such a plentiful ani- 
mal, I can't rightly tell which one you mean." 

Stella opened her eyes wide with astonishment. 

" Don't you know 

'* ' Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle. 
The cow jumped over the moon ' ? " 

" Oh, to be sure ! That ere event occurred 
some time ago, and it had kind of slipped my mind. 
Yes, I see her. She gin the moon a clip with her 
heels when she went over, and knocked it kind of 
slantwise. Mebbe you 've noticed, sometimes, that 
it looks kind of slantwise." 

" Yes, I have !" cried Stella, eagerly. Surely 
such proof as this would convince even Jack, she- 

"Oh, I wish 1 could go to the moon! You 
could n't possibly take me, could you ? and bring 
me back again," she added, with a sudden thought 
of home. 

" I e.xpect they think a good deal of you to home, 
and mebbe they would n't want to spare you," said 
the man. 

" Yes, they do. 1 am the youngest. Papa says 
he would n't take a million dollars for me. But, 
of course. 1 could come back again." 

"Of course. 1 might take you along with me 
now, if you was a good girl and did n't make no 
noise, and 1 could bring you back again before 
they missed you," said the man. 

" Oh, will you ? " cried Stella, hopping on one 
foot. That was the way in which all the little 
Mudgetts expressed their greatest joy. "And 
Cinderella, too ! It will be such a thing for Cin- 
derella ! " 

Stella had heard her mother say that about 
Polly, their eldest, when she was invited to go on a 
trip to Europe. " And perhaps they don't have 
dolls in the moon, and will like to see her." 

The man examined Cinderella critically. She 
was large and heavy, but she was made of wax 
and had "truly hair," and he said Stella might 
take her. 

He looked cautiously around to see if anybody 
saw them, as he slung his worn old leather bag 
across his shoulder by means of a walking-stick, 
and, taking Stella's hand in his, started off. 

Stella wondered whether they were to go up on 
broomsticks, but her new friend was not as talkative 
as he had been at first. He seemed to have got 
tired of answering questions, like Deborah. She 
could only discover that they were going "by the 
way of Norwich," which was a sea-port town about 
ten miles away. Stella had been there, often, with 
her uncle John : it was from there that his vessel 

sailed. But she had never heard that there was 
any conveyance from Norwich to the moon. Jack 
would be very much surprised to know it. He 
would be very likely to say, " 1 don't believe it." 
That was almost the last distinct thought that Stella 
had. She grew so sleepy that she stumbled along, 
half-dragged by her companion. It was long past 
her bed-time, and sleep conquered even the delight 
that she felt that she was on the way to the moon. 
At length the man, grumblingly, lifted her in his 
arms, sound asleep. Her hold upon Cinderella had 
relaxed, and the man stuck Her Dollship, head- 
first, into his grimy pocket, the legs waving wildly 
in the air. And so this strangely assorted company 
traveled on in the darkness. 

Stella opened her eyes upon the very queerest 
place they had ever seen. It was a ship's cabin, — 
she knew that, at a glance, having often been on 
board her uncle John's ship, — but the darkest, 
dingiest, most forlorn one imaginable. She rolled 
quickly out of the dirty and stifling bunk in which 
she was lying, and took a survey of her surround- 
ings. One side of the cabin seemed to be a mass 
of broken timbers, through which came little gleams 
of daylight and a glimpse of waving grass. The 
ship was evidently not on the water, and would 
ne\er be likely to be again. It was very queer, 
but it might be the fashion in the moon to live in 
a ship, Stella thought. 

Three or four of the raggedest and dirtiest chil- 
dren Stella had ever seen were quarreling over 
some object. As Stella drew near them, she saw 
that it was — oh, horror! — the headless body of 
Cinderella. And the man — her acquaintance of the 
night before — was holding up, by its golden locks, 
poor Cinderella's head, for the inspection of a dirt)' 
and dejected-looking woman. 

Stella screamed at that sight ; it was too much 
even for her stout little heart to bear. 

The man shook her roughly and told her to keep 
still. The children forgot the doll, and gathered 
about her, staring at her, with mouths and eyes 
wide open. 

" If you arc the Man in the Moon, you have n't 
any right to cut off my Cinderella's head ! " said 
Stella, boldly. " If there are any policemen in 
the moon, I shall have you arrested. hxA I want to 
go home. 1 don't think I shall like the moon at 

The man and woman both laughed. The man • 
said something that sounded like " reg'lar little 
Bedlamite." The woman complained that they 
should find her in the way, and the man replied 
that he would " keep her till there was a reward 
offered," and that they "might as well humor her 
notions." They offered her some fried fish for 
breakfast, but, brave as she was, she was too home- 


IIIK M A N 1 N r II K MOO N . 


sick and frightened to cat. The children were 
very social, and invited her to accompany them to 
the deck. There was a rickety ladder, up whicli 
they scampered like squirrels, and Stella climbed 
after them. She looked around her with great 
curiosity ; out-of-doors in the moon might be pleas- 
ant if the dwellings were not, she thought. 

"Why, it isn't the moon, at all! It is Nor- 
wich ! " she cried. "If we have n't got there, 1 
don't think I '11 go. I would rather go home ! " 

They were on the wreck of a fishing-schooner, 
which was half-imbedded in the mud, in a little 
retired cove just outside the harbor of Norwich. 
Less than a mile away lay the town. 

Stella was disappointed, but a feeling of relief 
that she was so near home mingled with her disap- 
pointment. For the Man in the Moon had cer- 
tainly not improved upon acquaintance. He was 
no longer agreeable ; he had become very un- 
willing to answer questions, and he had cruelly 
murdered Cinderella. 

" How do you get to the moon ? " asked Stella. 

The children looked puzzled, and giggled, and 
said nothing. An expression came into Stella's 
face that made her look like Jack. 

" Do you live here all the time ? " she said, sol- 

" Oh, no ! We 've only been here a week. \\'e 
don't live nowhere. We tramp," said the oldest 

This was not very intelligible to Stella. At that 
moment, the man came up the ladder, and at once 
sent his children below. Then he said : 

"We 've just put in here for repairs — clothes 
and victuals, and sich. We 're a-goin' home to 
the moon just as soon as we can find a convey- 
ance," he said. 

It was true, then ; and it was very disappointing. 
It occurred to Stella that Mother Goose was right 
in saying that he came down "too soon." He 
might just as well never come at all ! 

" I think I will go home. May be you wont 
get a conveyance for a good while, and they 'II be 
worried about me at home." Stella tried to be 
polite, but she spoke very decidedly. 

"Oh, we could n't think ofgivin' up the pleasure 
of a visit from you at our beautiful home in the 
moon ! " said the man. " Here you don't see us 
at our best ; our ship has run aground, so to speak. 
My wife and I are goin' out now, to see if we can't 
hire a balloon to take us up to-night, and you had 
better wait and go with us." 

It did sound inviting — to go in a balloon up 
to the moon ! But Stella was thoroughly home- 
sick. " I 'm very much obliged to you, but I think 
I 'd rather go home. Perhaps, the next time you 
come down, I '11 go home with you," she said. 

" Well, if you ha' n't changed your mind before 
night, when we come back with the balloon, I 'II 
take you home," said the man. 

And all Stella's pleading and tears were unavail- 
ing. The children were sent away, with empty 
baskets on their arms, in the direction of Norwich ; 
then the man and his wife went off in another 
direction, and they took down the ladder which led 
up the vessel's side, so that Stella could not get 
down to the ground. 

And as they went, Stella saw Cinderella's beau- 
tiful golden ringlets hanging out of the man's 
pocket, and she heard the man say to his wife that 
as the head was wax, and the hair real, they might 
perhaps sell them for a few cents ! 

Left alone, poor little Stella sobbed and screamed 
until she was exhausted. But only the echoes an- 
swered. There were woods on one side, the ocean 
on the other; not a living being was within reach 
of her voice. Now and then a vessel sailed by, 
but always too far off to hear her. 

Before noon she was hungry enough to eat the 
few dry crusts which had been left for her dinner, 
and then she felt a little more hopeful, and, curling 
herself up in a corner, she forgot all her woes in 

The crashing of thunder awoke her. Her greatest 
terror had come in the train of her other troubles. 

Thunder and lightning were even worse to Stella 
than curly dogs. Cozily cuddled in her mother's 
arms a thunder-storm was bad enough, but to be 
all alone in this strange and solitary place, the sky 
black, excepting when tongues of flame splintered 
the clouds, and awful crashes came at intervals, 
was too much for the bravest little girl to endure 
calmly. If it had been Jack it would have been 
different, for he was so queer that he actually liked 
thunder-showers. He said the banging made it 
seem like the Fourth of July. 

Stella was tempted to go below, where she would 
be out of sight of the lightning, but the cabin was 
so dark and close that she felt a horror of it, and it 
was lonelier, too. Up on deck she could see an 
occasional vessel, and there was a chance that one 
might come near enough to see her. So she 
staid there, and screamed as loud as she could, 
and waved Cinderella's headless boily wildly over 
her head. 

And a vessel did come near enough to see her. 
She could see a man looking at her through a glass. 
.Stella's screaming was no small matter. She was 
renowned at home for her ability in that direction. 
Jack sometimes impolitely called her the " Great 
American Screecher." And Stella screamed now 
as she never had screamed before. 

And a boat was lowered from the vessel ; it was 
rowed rapidly ashore ; a half-dozen sailors climbed 




to the deck where she was. And then they asked 
her questions. Stella wished that Deborah could 
hear them, she would neversay again there " never 
was nobody like our young ones for asking ques- 

And the sailors seemed astonishingly ignorant 
ofhistory, Stella thought; they had not even heard 
that there was a Man in the Moon ! 

But they took her into the boat and carried her 
over to the vessel, lifted her on board, and put her 
into her uncle John's arms. 

It sounds too good to be true, yet things do 
happen just right sometimes in the world. 

Uncle John hugged her, and kissed her, and 
laughed over her, and cried over her a little bit, 
too, big man as he was, for he seemed to think it 
was a dreadful thing to be carried off by a tramp 
in that way, and that it was wonderful that he had 
found her, all safe and sound. He called it just 
what Deborah called it when she wore her old bon- 
net and it rained, — "providential." 

And Uncle John would not believe, — any more 

than if he had been Jack, — that the man lived in 
the moon. 

When they reached home, they found Stella's 
mother and father, her eight brothers and sisters, 
and even Deborah, almost distracted with grief and 

The whole town was searching for Stella. 

The eight brothers and sisters stood around her 
in a circle, while she related her adventures, and 
the questions they asked would fill a volume. 

Jack said: '' I think she dreamed it. It sounds 
just like a story. I don't beUeve it." 

An officer was sent to arrest the tramp early the 
next morning, but the old fishing-schooner was 
deserted ; there were scarcely any signs that any- 
body had ever lived there, excepting poor Cin- 
derella's body, which he brought home. 

Stella's father and Uncle John thought that the 
man had been frightened by Stella's escape, and 
had traveled off as fast as possible to avoid arrest. 

But Stella's private opinion is that they got the 
balloon and went up to the moon that night. 


By One of Them. 

HE witches get in ni)- books, I know, 

Or else it 's fairy elves; 
For when I study, they plague me so 

1 feel like one of themselves. 
Often they whisper: "Come and play. 

The sun is shining bright ! " 
And when I fling the book away 

They flutter with delight. 
They dance among the stupid words. 

And twist the "rules" awry; 
And fly across the page like birds, 

Though 1 can't see them fly. 
They twitch my feet, they blur my eyes, 

They make me drowsy, too ; 
In fact, the more a fellow tries 

To study, the worse they do. 
They can't be heard, they can't be seen- 

I know not how they look — 
And yet they always lurk between 

The leaves of a lesson-book. 
Whatever they are I can not tell, 

But this is plain as day; 
I never '11 be able to study well. 

As long as the book-elves stay. 



1111; ROL'Xl) STONE. 

(^ Hungarian Foikstory.) 

Bv J Ion. Jeremiah Curtin. 

upon a time a 
poor fisherman 
and his wife, who 
had as many chil- 
dren as there are 

stars in the sky, or grass- 
blades in a meadow. The 
poor man fished and 
earned his bread by the 
sweat of his brow. He 
was as poor as a church- 
mouse, or even poorer, 
for the mouse has, from 
time to time, a nibble at 
a cheese, or a crumb of 
bread, but he had only 
his soul and body and a 

The poor man had a 
very rich brother, who 
had as many children as 
there are knots on a water- 
reed, but if the poor man 
sent to his brother for a 
dish of flour, once in a 
while when he had noth- 
ing in the house to eat, 
the wicked man answered 
thus: "I will give you a 
dish of flour if you give 
me one of your children ; 
if you don't, jou may 
claw the air, eat ice, drink 
water, and for vegetables 
have tears and weeping." 
So the poor man who 
had many children, had 
nothing to give them, not 
even a morsel as large as 
my little finger. 

One time, the poor man 

had had no bread in the 

cupboard for a whole 

week, and the family lived 

on roots and stewed earth- 

Ijerries. The weather was 

rainy and windy, so he 

could not fish. When it grew calm, on the seventh 

day, he went out with his net, and fished all day 

and well into the night. The clock had already 

struck two in the morning, and the east began to 

grow gray and glimmer, but the poor man had not 

caught a single fish. Two hundred times he threw 

his net, and two hundred times he drew out nothing. 

" I will throw it for the last time," said he to 

himself. " If there will be something in it, very 




good ; if not, 't will also be well. God's will be 
done ! — Oh, there is something ! my hand feels it ! " 

He drew out the net carefully, hauled it on shore, 
and behold ! he took out a round stone from the 

"If 't is only a stone, what good is it to me? 
My children can't eat it. A poor man has poor 
luck." With this, he threw the stone into the 
middle of the water. 

Then the poor man cast in his net once more. 
As soon as the net moved, he drew it out very 
cautiously. Again he found the stone. 

" What good are stones to me ? I catch nothing 
else. I should not say a word if God had given 
me a stomach to digest stones." With that he 
threw the stone again into the middle of the 

A third time he threw his net into the water, 
and a third time he drew out the stone. 

" Either all the fish are turned to stone, ur the 
witches are playing me a trick ! This must be 
the work of an evil spirit, and not a good one. 
What can I do with it ? If it would only turn to 
bread ! " Then he threw in the stone a third time. 
but near the edge of the water. 

Since the poor man had not caught a single fish, 
and now was very tired, he gathered up his net 
at last, and set out for home, sorrowful and dis- 
couraged. But he kept thinking of the round 
stone, as if God had whispered it to him. 

Presently he turned back and fished up the stone, 
saying: " It will do for the children to play with, 
for they have no bread." 

When he came near the house, his children ran 
out to meet him, asking: "What have you 
brought ? Is it a present ? " 

"I have brought nothing but a round stone. 
Here it is ; play with it." And he rolled it on the 

On the night of the seventh day the poor man's 
family were hungry and thirsty, but, as the children 
had something to play with, they played. 

The poor man lay down by the chimney, and his 
wife on a cot-bed with the smaller children. The 
older ones played and played, rolling the stone 
about. After a while the stone began to shine, 
and to grow brighter and brighter, until it filled 
the whole cabin with light, just as if the sun were 
shining, although it was but three o'clock in the 

The great light shone straight into the eyes of 
the fisherman, and he cried out: 

"What is this? There is neither a candle, a 
taper, nor a torch, but the house is all lighted. 
Come, Mother, get up. Just see the stone ; it 
shines like decaying wood in the dark, like a fire- 
fly, like a star, and even brighter ! " 

" Father," said the fisherman's wife, " I have 
heard all my life that there is in the world a kind 
of stone so beautiful and bright that you can buy 
an ox for a piece as large as a poppy-seed ; may be 
this is the kind." 

" Oh, you simpleton ! Where could we get such 
a stone ? Stones like that are not found in every 
fool's cabin. But a word is a word. There must 
be something in this stone, for it shines so that it 
blinds me ; and sparks come from it." 

Now the poor man got up, took the round stone 
from the children, went to work at it, rubbed it on 
grass, on wood, on the wall, on the ground, on the 
ashes, — in a word, on whatever came under his 
hand, until, at last, it was altogether bright. Then 
he covered it with an old foot-cloth, so that it 
might not light up the house and keep them from 

When they rose in the morning, the poor man 
said to his wife : 

"Well, wife, put on your best clothes, that you 
stitched together for a holiday, so that you might 
have something in which to go to worship God. 
Take this stone to the king as a present, and say 
that I sent it; and take a dish with you, — may be 
he '11 give you a little flour. At least, you may get 
something to make an ash-cake for the children." 

The poor man's wife put on her best dress and 
went to the king. When she came, she greeted 
him becomingly : 

" God give a good day to Your Majesty ! " 

" God keep you, poor woman ! What journey 
are \-ou on ? " 

" My husband sends you a little present. He is 
the man who lives by the stream on the hill, and 
earns his bread by fishing. But just now neither 
we nor our children have aught to eat." 

" Well, my good woman, what could you bring 
me when you have nothing yourself? But, what- 
ever it may be, on that account it is agreeable to 
me, for I see that you give it with a good heart ; 
come in, then, to my palace." 

The poor woman went into the king's palace, 
untied her handkerchief, and placed the round 
stone on the golden table. 

The king was scarcely able to speak from won- 
der, for the round stone was a diamond, and such 
a one, too, as neither the king's father, his grand- 
father, nor his great-grandfather had ever seen. 

"Where did you get that, poor woman?" he 
asked, at last. 

" My husband went fishing and caught it. 
Three times he threw it back into the water, and 
three times he drew it out. I thought in my simple 
mind that God gave it to him," said the poor 
woman, dropping a courtesy. 

"Well, poor woman," said the king, "Iwillkeep 



the diamond for myself, but I will give you a thou- 
sand florins for it." 

•' H'm ! A thousand florins!" exclaimed she, 
astonished at the greatness of the sum. 

But the king thought she was surprised at his 
oflcring so little money for a stone that he knew 
must be very v.iluablc ; so he said : " If that 's not 
enough, 1 '11 give you two thousand." 

"H'm! Two thousand ?" 

"Well, 1 '11 give three." 

" H'm ! Three thousand ? " 

" Look here, poor woman, (lo home and bring 

Now the poor man was so rich that you would 
ha\e had to search far to find his match. 

"Well, my dear wife," said the poor man, "we 
must me;isure this money so as to know how many 
l>ushels of it we have." 

" All right ; but we have no measure." 

"We may borrow one from our stingy brother. 
Perhaps he will lend us a measure. We '11 see if 
he has soul enough for that. Run, my little boy, 
Pishka, and ask a measure from my good brother." 

Pishka ran to the stingy brother, to see if he 
would lend an empty measure. 

^|llf f S I l^lt.l ft 



three. bags, and 1 '11 fill the first one for you with "An empty measure!" cried out the stingy 

gold, the second with silver, and the third witli brother. "An empty measure? Who has ever 

copper." heard of such a thing? What good would it be 

The poor woman brought three bags, and the to you, unless your father should measure you 

king filled them, — the first with gold, the second all, beginning with your mother? Do you hear 

with silver, and the third with copper; and, be- me?" 

sides, he did her the kindness of having a pair of " Of course I do," said the little boy. "They 

oxen yoked to a wagon in which he sent the money to told me an empty measure." 

her home, .^nd when the money was safely housed, " I wont lend an empty measure, without know- 
one of her sons drove back the wagon and oxen. ing why. But pack off home and ask whether an 




empty measure is wanted or a full one." Thus 
spoke the rich brother, in a harsh voice. 

The poor little fellow went home crying and 
sobbing, and told his parents what his uncle had 

"That's nothing," said his father, pacifying him. 
" The good God will reward every man according 
to his works. I believe that. But, Martsi, my 
boy, go you, and if he asks you what it is we are 
measuring, tell him it is money." 

Martsi, taking a pig-whip, which he had made 
from hemp, having braided it in three strands, ran 
off straightway to his uncle, and said to him: 

" My father has sent me to borrow an empty 
measure, for we are measuring money." 

" Mo-mo-mo-money ! You shall have it, my 
boy How many measures does he want ? 1 can't 
tell how " 

" Only one." 

"But hurry back, for, if the Jew comes to buy 
ashes, I shall need it." 

Martsi ran home with the measure, and they 
measured their money. They had just ten bushels 
of it. When the poor man had finished, he sent 
the measure home by his son Getsi, but first he 
stuck pieces of gold all around it. 

Getsi had scarcely returned the measure and got 
back home when the stingy brother strolled in 
after him, and cried: 

"God give you a good day, my dear l^rother ! " 
(This time he was "dear," but, before, never so 
much as "brother.") 

'" God keep you, Brother ! We have great news 
in the hqusc. Sit down here on the bench, by the 
fire near the hearth. What good news do you 
bring ? " 

" Oh, I have only called because I heard from 
your boy that you have come by a lot of money." 

The poor man listened, but said nothing. He 
looked his brother fairly in the eyes, and knowing 
how deceitful and designing he was, he said, 
sadly, to himself: "Oh, you wicked fellow! I'll 
see if I can ser\'e you a little trick that may teach 
you a good lesson." 

"You know," said the rich brother, " 1 have no 
family. After my death all ni)' property will be 
yours, for I can not take it with me to the grave, 
you know; so, if you tell me how you got the 
money, it will be all for your own good." 

"Where did I get it? Well, this is how it was : 
Yesterday, my old cat had kittens, and at the 
king's palace there are so many mice, and such an 
army of rats, that it is impossible to take a meal's 
victuals in peace, for the rats run about the walls so 
that they are ready to eat up the king. Soldiers 
are obliged to guard him with pikes and swords, 
and it 's as much as the soldiers can do to hold 

their own. I had an idea. So I took the old gray 
cat on my shoulder and put the two little kittens 
on a plate, and presented them to the king. He 
was delighted, and in his joy could not find a place 
good enough for me. The queen wiped the dust 
from the golden bench with her apron, seated me 
l)y her side, and asked how my wife was. After 
that, the king measured out three bags of money 
for me. If you don't believe it. Brother, why I 
have the money up here in the loft. You can 
see it with )our own eyes." 

"We need not go to that trouble. Brother; I 
believe what you say. What 's the need of looking? 
God's blessing be with you, I must go home." 

"Why so soon? We have scarcely had time 
yet to bid you welcome." 

" I have work to do at home. I forgot some- 
thing, and am in a great hurry," said the cunning 
brother, telling a fib. 

As soon as the rich man reached home, he 
shouted to his wife at the top of his voice. When 
she came he told her the whole story from begin- 
ning to end, how his brother, the fisherman, had 
come by the tremendous lot of money. Then 
they sat down, and, putting their heads together, 
worked out a great plan, and resolved that if their 
brother had taken three cats to the king they 
would take three bags full, and then would n't he 
give them a pile of money ? So they collected cats 
from three villages. But people brought them 
from seven, hearing that the rich man gave a 
good price for cats. No wonder they heard so, 
for no matter what any one asked for a cat, that 
he got. Either a bushel of wheat, a bag of pota- 
toes, a side of bacon, a cake of cheese, a keg of 
wine, or a jug of strong waters went out of the 
house in pay for each cat. So, when the three bags 
were full, the house was emptied clear and clean 
of provisions from cellar to garret ; but, upon my 
life, it was well stocked with cats. 

The rich brother set out on the journey with his 
man. He took four good horses, and packed the 
three bags of cats into a wagon. It is easy to 
imagine what a wailing and screaming the cats 
raised. Whcre\er he went, the whole world 
shouted at the wonder; the boys ran after the 
wagon from one village to another; the dogs 
barked; and there was such a head-splitting din 
that the rich man's hair turned gray. 

At last, he arrived at the palace. 

" Now," said the rich man to his servant, " you 
remain here by the wagon, so that nothing may be 
carried off, and I '11 go in. But give me the whip, 
so that if those stupid rats should fall on me, I can 
drive them away." Then he appeared before the 

" God give a good day to Your Majesty ! " 


" God guard you, rich man ! What business are 
you on ? " 

" I have brought a present to Your Majesty. 
I have n't brought it in, because I did n't know 
where Your Majesty would hke to have it, here or 
somcwliere else. " 

■' Well, what have you brought, my good man ? " 

" What have I brought? That which is dearest 
to Your Majesty, and which \ou pay gold and sil- 
ver for." 

" Well, what may it be ? " 

" What may it be ? Your .Majesty will sec 
directly ; and, although I say it, I know Your 
Majesty will cover me with gold for it." 

" Well, but what can it be .> " 

" To satisfy Your Majesty's curiosity, I will say 
that I have brought the same as my brother 
brought. You are pleased to know him personally." 

" I know — the man who lives by the stream on 
the hill, and earns his living by fishing." 

" Yes, yes, he is the man ; but 1 have brought 
still more than he." 

" Oh, in that case, bring it in, this minute, and 
I will call the queen, her ladies, and the pages." 

The rich man went to the wagon, and, with his 
serving-man, brought the three bags of cats into 
the White Palace, to the king's chamber. But 
could he find the way? Why shouldn't he? The 
chambers arc twelve in a row. 

When the rich brother came to the chamber, he 
opened the bags quickly and let out all the cats. 
As they had eaten nothing for a whole week, and 
had been in the bags all the time, the cats had 
grown wild and had their fur torn off. They made 
such confusion as man had never seen ; one 
smashed a window, another broke a looking-glass, a 

third overturned a glass case. They broke every- 
thing — glasses, vessels, cups, and goodness knows 

The king cried out from amazement. The 
queen screamed, for a cat had torn its way up 
her snow-white arm ; and the king's little sons 
began to cry and roar as if to split their throats. 

As the doors were open from one chamber to 
another, the cats raced through the whole palace 
and smashed into bits everything that could be 
broken. There was scarcely a window, a looking- 
glass, or a vase left whole in the building. 

At last, the soldiers, hearing the unearthly noise, 
the smasliing, screaming, and '" sptissing," rushed 
in, some with clubs, others with spears and swords, 
and killed the legion of cats, excepting those that 
had jumped out through the windows. Master 
Yantchi, for thus they called the rich brother, was 
neither dead nor ali\e ; he stood there like a boy 
who knows he has put the wrong stick on the fire 
and will suffer for it. But as the boy runs from a 
sound thrashing if he can, so Master Yantchi was 
up and away. He packed himself off in hot haste, 
taking no leave of the company, and ran out into 
the wide world like a stray horse. He never had 
the courage to come back again to his own village, 
for every one laughed at his adventure and made 
sport of him as " the cat-huckster." 

At last, news was brought that the cat-huckster 
had been frozen to death near the robbers' ditch, 
and, not long aftenvard, his wife journeyed forth 
from this world of shadows. Since God had not 
blessed them with children, the poor brother who 
had been a fisherman inherited everything, and 
became so enormously rich that only the king has 
more money, and he has only a sixpence more. 






■'Prithee, my laddie, where go you to-day? 
The strong wind is blowing, the heavens are 
"1 go to the Northland, far, far away." 

" And wherefore, my laddie, if this we may know, 
So far on this cold winter morn do you go ? " 
"To find out the land where there 's nothing 
but snow — 

■' Where icicles hang like the leaves on the tree. 
And one may skate merrily over the sea. 

And pray, 

lu go, my fair lasses, with 

■■ My sleigh is beyond, with its rapid reindeer. 
Then — ho for the land where there 's snow 
all the year ! " 
" Nay, thanks, it is quite cold enough for us here ! 

" Now, prithee, my laddie, go you on your way; 
Good fortune attend you wherever you stray ; 
But we '11 stay at home, if you please, sir ! 
Good-day ! " 


DONALD AND D O R U T 1 1 \' 




Hv M.\KV Mapes Dnrx;!-;. 


Just as Donald and Dorothy were about to 
end their outdoor visit to the Danbys, described 
in our hist chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in 
a neighboring field, trying to catch Mr. Reed's 
spirited mare, "' Lady," that had been let out to 
have a run. He already had approached her with- 
out difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, 
but she had started away from him, and he, feeling 
that she had had playtime enough, was now bent 
on recapturing her. 

Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were following 
their every motion. Then Donald and Ben, not 
being able to resist the impulse, scampered over 
to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and 
Fandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity 
called him back. 

It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, 
one moment standing motionless at a safe distance 

from Jack, and the next, leaping about the field, 
mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a 
defiant enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing 
horses in the same field caught her spirit ; even 
Don's pony, at first looking soberly over a hedge 
in the adjoining lot, began frisking and capering 
■ibout on his own account, dashing past an opening 
in the hedge as though it were as solid a barrier 
:is the rest. Nor were Jack and the boys less 
frisky. Coaxing and shouting had failed, and now 
it was an open chase, in which, for a time, the 
mare certainly had the advantage. But what horse 
is proof against its appetite ? Clever little Fandy 
had rushed to Mr. Reed's barn, and brought back 
in his hat a light lunch of oats for the marc, which 
he .It once bore into her presence, shaking it 
temptingly, at the same time slowly backing away 
from her. The little midget and his hatful suc- 
ceeded, where big man and boys had failed. The 
mare came cautiously up and was about to put her 
nose into the cap, when Jack's sudden but stealthy 
effort to seize the bridle made her start sidewise 

* Copyright, 1881, by Mary M.ipes Dodge. All rights resen'ed. 




away from him. But here Donald leaped forward 
at the other side and caught her. 

Jack was too proud of Don's quickness to appear 
surprised ; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of 
the Danby boys, he took the bridle from the young 
master with an off-hand air, and led the now gen- 
tle animal quietly toward the stable. 

But Dorothy was there before him. Out of 
breath after her brisk run, she was panting and 
tugging at a dusty side-saddle hanging in the har- 
ness-room, when Jack and the mare drew near. 

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "help me get this 
down ! I mean to have some fun. I 'm going to 
ride that mare back to the field !" 

" Not you, Miss Dorry ! " exclaimed Jack. "Take 
your own pony, an' your own saddle, an' it 's a go ; 
but this 'ere mare 'd be on her beam ends with 
you in no time." 

" Oh, no she would n't, Jack ! She knows me 
perfectly. (Don't you. Lady?) Oh, do. Jack! 
That 's a good Jack. Please let me ! Don 's there, 
you know '' 

Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By 
this time the side-saddle clattered down from its 
peg, with a peculiar buckle-and-leathery noise of 
its own. 

" Wont you, Jack ? Ah, wont you ! " 

" No, miss, I wont !" said Jack, resolutely. 

"Why, Jack, 1 've been on her before. Don't 
you know ? There is n't a horse on the place that 
could thro«- me. Uncle said so. Don't you re- 
member ?" 

" So he did ! " said Jack, his eyes sparkling 
proudly. "The Cap'n said them very words. 
An'," glancing weakly at the mare, " she 's standin' 
now like a skiff in a calm. Not a breath in her 
sails " 

"Oh, do — do, Jack!" coaxed Dorry, seizing 
her advantage, "quick! They 're all in the lot 
yet. Here, put it on her ! " 

" 1 'm an old fool," muttered Jack to himself, as, 
hindered by Dorry's busy touches, he proceeded to 
saddle the subdued animal; "but I can't never 
refuse her nothin' — that 's where it is. Easy now, 
miss ! " as Doriy, climbing up on the feed-box in 
laughing excitement, begged him to hurry and let 
her mount. "Easy now. There! You 're on, 
high and dry. Here" (tugging at the girth), 
" let me tauten up a bit ! Steady now ! Don't 
try no capers with her, Miss Dorry, and come back 
in a minute. Get up, Lady ! — ^get up ! " 

The mare left the stable so slowly and unwilling- 
ly, that Jack slapped her flank gentlv as she moved 

Jog, jog went Lady out through the wide stable 
door-way, across the yard into the open field. 
Dorry. hastily arranging her skirts and settling her- 

self comfortably upon the grand but dingy saddle 
(it had been Aunt Kate's in the days gone by), 
laughed to herself, thinking how astonished they 
all must be to see her riding Lady back to them. 
For a moment she playfully pretended to be un- 
conscious of their gaze. Then she looked up. 

Poor Dorry ! Xot a boy, not even Donald, had 
remained in the field ! He and the little Danbys 
were listening to one of Ben's stories of adventure. 
Even the two horses and Don's pony were quietly 
nosing the dry grass in search of green tufts. 

"1 don't care," she murmured, gayly, overcom- 
ing her disappointment. " I mean to have a ride, 
any way. Get up. Lady ! " 

Lady did get up. She shook her head, pricked 
up her ears, and started off at a beautiful canter 
across the fields. 

" How lovely ! " thought Dorry, especially pleased 
at that moment to see several figures coming to- 
ward her from the Danby yard; "it's just like 
flying ! " 

Whether Lady missed her master's firm grip 
upon the rein, or whether she guessed her rider's 
thought, and was inspired by the sudden shouts 
and hurrahs of the approaching boys, can never be 
known. Certain it is that by the next moment 
Dorr)-, on Lady's back, was flymg in earnest. — ^ fly- 
ing at great speed round and round the field, but 
with never an idea of falling off. Her first feeling 
was that her uncle and Jack would n't be pleased 
if they knew the exact character of the ride. Next 
came a sense of triumph, because she felt that 
Don and the rest were seeing it all, and then a 
wild consciousness that her hat was off, her hair 
streaming to the wind, and that she was keeping 
her seat for dear life. 

Lady's canter had become a run, and the run 
soon grew into a series of leaps. Still Dorry kept 
her seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless 
rider, and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed 
the prospect of a tussle with Lady. But as the 
speed increased, Dorry found herself growing deaf, 
dumb and blind in the breathless race. Still, if 
she could only hold on, all would be well ; she cer- 
tainly could not consent to be conquered before 
" those boys." 

Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every 
leap. There was no merr)' shouting now. The 
little boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying 
to hold Don back, was wondering what was to be 
done, and Charity was wringing her hands. 

'' Oh, oh ! She '11 be thrown ! " cried the girls. 

"Not a bit of it!" insisted Donald. "1 've 
seen Dot on a horse before." (But his looks be- 
trayed his anxiety.) "See! The mare 's trying 
to throw her now ! But she can't do it — she can't 
do it ! Dot understands herself, I tell you, — 




Whoa-o! — Let me go!" and, breaking from Ben, 
he tore across the field, through the opening in the 
hedge, and was on his pony's back in a twinkling. 
How he did it, he never knew. He had heard 
Dorr)' scream, and somehow that scream made him 
and his pony one. Together, they flew over the 
tield ; with a steady, calm purpose they cut across 
Lady's course, and soon were at her side. Donald's 
" Hold on, Dot ! " was followed by his quick plunge 
toward the mare. It seemed that she certainly 

superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the 
pony was rubbing its nose against her steaming 

" Good for you. Dot ! " was Donald's first word. 
'• You held on magnificently." 

Dorothy stroked Lady's hot neck, and for a mo- 
ment could not trust herself to look up. But when 
Jack half pulled, half lifted her from the saddle, and 
she felt tlie firm earth benentli her, she tottered 
and would have fallen, had not Donald, frightened 


would ride over him, but he never faltered. Grasp- 
ing his pony's mane with one hand, he clutched 
Lady's bridle with the other. The marc plunged, 
but the boy's grip was as firm as iron. Though 
almost dragged from his seat, he held on, and the 
more she struggled, the harder he tugged, — the 
pony bearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager 
sympathy with Donald's every movement. Jack 
and Hen were now tearing across the field, bent on 
rescue ; but they were not needed. Don was mas- 
ter of the situation. The mare had yielded with 

Vol. IX.— 19. 

at her white face, sprung to the ground Just in time 
to support her. 

"Shiver my timbers ! " growled Jack, " if ever 
1 let youngsters have their way again ! " But his 
eyes shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach 
and satisfaction as he looked at Dorry. 

"Oh, is she hurt?" cried Charity, who, liaving 
stumbled with the baby in her rush across the field, 
was gathering up the screaming little fellow, catch- 
ing her balance, and scrambling onward at the 
same time — " Is she hurt?" 




" Is she hurt ? " echoed the others, pressing for- 
ward in breathless excitement. 

" Not hurt at all," spoke up Donald, stoutly, as, 
still supporting his sister, he saw the color coming 
back to her cheek — "not hurt one bit ! It 's only 
been a splendid ride for her, and a jolly scare for 
us ; but it is high time we were in the house. All 's 
right, Jack. Good-bye, everybody! We '11 skip 
along home, now." 

Chapter IX. 


better known as 
Michael by the 
Manning fami- 
ly, or, more de- 
scriptively, as 
"Mr. Manning's 
Mike," at the 
village store, but 
always as old 
our Liddy — was 
about to enjoy 
an evening out. 
This was a rare 
occurrence ; for 
Mr. McSwiver, 
though he had 
advertised him- 
self as having 
"no incum- 
brance," was by no means an ease-taking man. 
He united in his august person the duties of coach- 
man, butler, waiter, useful man, and body-servant 
to Mr. Manning. Seeing him at early dawn black- 
ing his employer's boots, or, later, attending to the 
lighter duties of the coach-house (he had a stable- 
boy to help him), one could never imagine the 
grandeur of that same useful individual when 
dressed in his best. 

"■ A hall-donr and waitin' suit brings out a man's 
fine points if he has any, so it does ; and it 's 
nowise surprisin' that parties callin' after night-fall 
should be secretly mistakin' me for the boss him- 
self," thought Mr. McSwiver, as he took a final, 
anxious look at his well-scrubbed countenance 
before starting to make a formal call on Liddy. 

Half an hour afterward he was stalking toward 
the village store, talking to himself as usual, for 
lack of better company : 

"Humph ! Queen Victorior herself could n't be 
more high and might)' ! and all because her young 

lady 's gone an' had a runaway on horseback ! ' Is 
she kilt ? ' says I. ' Mercy, no ! ' says she ; ' but I 
shall be special engaged all the ev'nin', Mr. Mc- 
Swiver,' says she; and with that she fastens her 
eyes on me (mighty pooty ones they are, too!) 
a-noddin' good-bye, till 1 was forced, like, to take 
meself off. Miss Josephine herself could-n't 'a' 
been grander to one of them young city swells at 
the 'cademy ! Och ! " 

Meantime, Lydia had quite forgotten his sudden, 
nipped-in-the-bud visit. Old Mr. McSwiver was well 
enough in his own way, and at a fitting time, for he 
knew her cousins the Crumps; but she could not 
think of society matters so soon after her darling 
Miss Dorry had been in danger. 

" Did you ever know it to turn out any other 
way?" said she confidentially to Donald, on that 
same evening, — after Dorothy, somewhat subdued 
by dreadful remarks on the subject of nervous 
shocks and internal injuries, had retired earlier than 
usual, — "now, did you, Master Donald? There 
Mr. G. had been taking extra precautions to keep 
her safe, and, under a merciful Providence, it was 
only b\- the skin of that dear child's teeth that she 
was n't sent to a better world ! And, do you know, 
Master Donald ? there 's been serious goings on 
here, too." 

" Goings on ? What tfi> you mean, Liddy? " 

"Why, the horrid man came — the very same 
that looked in at my sitting-room window — and 
Mr. George opened the door his own self, and 
spoke very severe to him, and ' 1 can not see you 
to-night,' says he. ' Come on next Monday even- 
ing, at half-past nine, and not before.' I heard 
him say those ver)- words." 

Donald looked at her anxiously, but made no 

"There's no harm in my telling you," contin- 
ued Liddy, softly, " because you and Mr. G. and 
me know about him." 

"No, I don't, Liddy. I have n't heard half, 
and you know it ! " was Donald's puzzled and 
indignant rejoinder. " This being let half-way 
into a secret does n't suit me. If Lhicle were not 
busy this evening, I 'd go in and straighten matters 
at once." 

" Oh, hush ! please do," whispered Liddy, hur- 
riedly. "Miss Dorry '11 hear you. I only meant 
that you and I botli know that he 's been hanging 
about these parts for a week or more, and that his 
presence does n't bode any good. Why, you no- 
ticed it first of anybody. Besides, I want her to 
sleep. The darling child ! She 's feeling worse than 
she lets on, I 'm afraid, though I rubbed her back 
with liniment to make sure. Please don't talk 
any more about things to-night, my dear. To-mor- 
row I '11 ask your uncle to " 




"No, you need n't, thank you, Liddy," inter- 
rupted Don. "1 '11 speak to him myself." 

"Oh, my! When?" 

'■ I don't know. When I get ready," he re- 
plied, laughing in spite of himself at Lydia's hope- 
less way of putting the question. "It is sure to 
come soon. 1 've had tries at this tangle from time 
to time without getting a fair pull at it. But I 
intend to straighten it out soon, or know the reason 

"Sakes! What an air he has, to be sure!" 
thought Liddy, as Donald moved away. " The 
fact is, that boy 's getting big. W'e older folks '11 
think of them as children to the end of our days; 
but it 's true as sky and water. And it 's even 
more so with Miss Dorry. Those twins are getting 
older, as sure as I live ! " 

Monday evening came, and with it the " long, 
lank man." He did not come before half-past 
nine ; and then, to Lydia's great disappointment 
(for she had rather enjoyed the luxury of dreading 
this mysterious visit), he rang the donr-bell like 
any other visitor, and asked, familiarly, for Mr. 

" .Mr. Reed is at home, sir," responded Liddy, in 
a tone of cold disapprobation. 

" All right. You 're the housekeeper, I 
s'pose ? " 

Trembling within, but outwardly calm, silent, 
and majestic, Liddy threw open the study-door, and 
saw Mr. Reed rise to receive his guest. 

The good woman's sitting-room was directly 
under the study. Consequently, the rumble of 
voices overhead soon became somewhat ex;isperat- 
ing. But she calmed herself with the thought that 
Mr. George knew his own business. It was evident 
that he had something very important to talk over 
with " that person " ; and if a wild thought of car- 
rying in glasses and a pitcher of water did enter her 
head, it met with such a chilling reception from 
Liddy's better self that it was glad to creep away 

This, then, was why Lydia, busily engaged at her 
little sewing-table, was right glad, late as it was, to 
see Mr. Jack's shining face and newly combed 
locks appear at the sittmg-room door. 

"Hullo, messmate! My service to you," was 
that worthy's salutation. 

" Good-evening, sir," said Lydia, severely. " My 
name is Blum — Miss Lydia Blum, though you 'vc 
known it these twelve years, and been told of it 
twenty times as often." 

"Miss Blum, then, at your scr\'ice," growled 
Jack, bowing very low, and still remaining near the 
door. " It struck me, Miss Blum, that a chap 
from the forecastle might drop into your pretty 

cabin for a friendly chat this fine evening, Mrs. 

" Yes, indeed, and welcome," was the laughing 
reply. " Take a seat, Mr. Jack." 

He always was " Mr. Jack," evenings, and she. 
Miss Blum, each enjoying the other's society all the 
more because of the mutual conviction that he was 
no ordinary coachman, and she was far from being 
an every-day servant. Nora, the red-cheeked house 
maid, and Kassy, the cook, felt this ; and though 
treated kindly, c\en cordially, by both these mighty 
powers, they understood their distance well enough, 
and that they were not a part of the family, as 
Jack and Lydia Blum were. 

" Mr. Jack," spoke Lydia, suddenly, " do you 
know who is upstairs ? " 

" Aye, aye." 

" Did you come on that account?" 

Here Jack looked knowing, and said she must 
not question the man on the lookout. 

" Not that I 've had even a hint of such a thing 
from the Captain," added Jack, as his companion 
nodded approvingly; "but your good sailor looks 
to the scupper before the ship fills — which does n't 
apply in partickular, but it has its meaning, never- 
theless. Young parties turned in, yet ? " 

" Master Donald and Miss Dorothy have retired. 
Mr. Jack," corrected Miss Blum, loftily. "That 
is, I presume so. At any rate, they are in their 
rooms, bless them ! " 

" Bless 'em again ! " echoed Mr. Jack, heartily, 
ignoring the reproof. " A smarter, smilinger pair 
of beauties never came in my range on sea or land. 
There 's Master Donald, now, with the spirit of a 
man-o'-war in his boy's hull. My, but he 's a fine 
one ! And yet so civil and biddable ! Always full 
set when there 's fun in the air. Can't tell you, 
Mistress Blum, how 1 dote on that 'ere boy. Then 
there's Miss Dorothy, — the trimmest, neatest little 
craft I ever see. It seemed, t' other day, that the 
deck was slipping from under me when 1 see that 
child scudding around the lot on Lady's back. You 
could n't 'a' told, at first, whether she was a-runnin' 
away with Lady, or Lady a-runnin' away with her. 
But did n't the skeer follow mighty quick on us? 
I tell you the wind blew four quarters to once fur a 
spell, but before one could get there Master Don- 
ald had her. Whew ! It was mirac'l'us ! Never see 
such a boy — no, nor girl either — as them two 
twins ! " 

" Nor I," said Liddy, fer\-ently. 

".And what babbies they were!" proceeded 
Jack. " I can see 'em, now, as I first saw 'em after 
the wreck, — poor, thin, pinched mites, sneezin' 
their little heads off, 'most. And then, when you 
took hold on 'em, Mistress Blum, with your tender 
care, night an' day, day an' night, always studyin' 




their babby naturs so particular and insistin' upon 
their havin' their grog from one tap " 

" Mr. Jack, I 'm ashamed of you ! How often 
I Ve requested you not to put it that way ! Milk 
from one cow is a common-sense rule. Every one 
knows that babies brought up by hand must be 
treated just so particular. Well, they throve on it, 
did n't they?" — her eyes kindhng. 

" Throve ! Shiver my timbers, I — ahem ! Beg 
parding ! Throve ! Why, they just bounded ! I 
never see anything like it ! The brightest, liveliest 
little pair o' sea-gulls I ever set eyes on ; an' grow? 
Grow, Miss Blum ? Well, throw me to the sharks 
if ever I see anything grow like them babbies ! " 

" Did n't they ! " exclaimed Miss Blum, so happy 


in recalling her success with the precious, darling 
little D's that she quite forgot to check Mr. Jack's 
inelegance. "Ah, many a time I used to stand 
and wonder at them when I should have been 
workin' ! Why, do you know, Mr. Jack " 

A bell rang violently. 

"It's the master!" cried Liddy, and as she 
sprang up the stairs. Jack followed her rapidly and 
lightly on tiptoe. 

But it was not Mr. George at all. When Liddy 
hastily opened the library door with a " Did you 
ring, sir?" and Mr. Reed responded with a sur- 
prised " No, thank you ! " the good woman ran up 
the next flight of stairs, and Jack went down again, 
whistling softly to himself 

Lydia found Donald in tribulation. He had 
remained up to write a letter to a friend at board- 
ing-school, and somehow had managed to upset his 
inkstand. His attempts to prevent serious damage 
had only increased the mischief A pale but very 
large ink-stain stared up at him from the wet carpet. 

" De-struction ! " exclaimed Lydia, as, standing 
at the open door, she took in the situation at a 
glance. "If you 'd only rubbed it with blotting- 
paper the instant it happened," she continued, 
kneeling upon the floor, and rubbing vigorously 
with a piece that she had snatched from the table, 
" there would n't have been a trace of it by this time. 
Sakes ! " glancing at the fine towel which Donald 
had recklessly used, " if you have n't ruined that, 
too! Well," she sighed, slowly rising, "nothing 
but sour milk can help the carpet now, and 1 have 
n't a drop in the house!" 

"Never mind," said Donald ; "what's a little 
ink-stain ? You can't expect a bachelor's apart- 
ment to look like a parlor. I '11 fling the rug over 
the place — so ! " 

" Not now, Master Donald. Do wait till it. 
dries ! " cried Lydia, checking him in the act, and 
laughing at his bewildered look. She ran down- 
stairs with a half- reproachful " My, what a boy ! " 
— while Donald, carefully putting a little water into 
the inkstand, to make up for recent waste, went on 
with his letter, which, it happened, was all about 
matters not immediately connected with this story. 

Chapter X. 




" Hope the young folks are at home," remarked 
the " long, lank man," with an off-hand air of 
familiarity, comfortably settling himself in an arm- 
chair before the smoldering fire, and thrusting out 
his ungainly feet as far as possible. " Would be 
glad to make their acquaintance." 

" My nephew and niece have retired for the 
night, sir," was the stiff reply. 

" Ah ? Hardly past nine, too. You hold to old- 
fashioned customs here, I perceive. Early to bed, 
etcetera, etcetera. And yet they 're no chickens. 
Let me sec ; I 'm thirty-nine. According to my 
reckoning, they must carry about fourteen years 
apiece by this time. Dorothy looks it ; but the boy 
seems younger, in spite of his big ways. Why 
not sit down, George?" 

"Dorothy! — George!" echoed Mr. Reed's 
thought, indignantly. But with a stern resolve to 
be patient, he seated himself. 

"Look here, George, as this is likely to be a 




long session, let 's have a little more of a blaze here. 
I got cliillcd through waiting for that door to open. 
Ah, that 's something like ! " 

Meanwhile this cordial person, carefully selecting 
suitablo pieces from the wood-basket on the hearth, 
and re-arranging the fire, had seized the bellows 
and begun to blow vigorously, nearly shutting up 
his long figure, like a big clasp-knife, in the act. 

" Excuse my making myself to home," he con- 
tinued, jauntily poking a small log into place with 
the bellows, and then brushing his seedy trousers 
with his hand; "it was always my style. Most 
men that's been knocked about all their lives get 
shy and war>'. But that aint Eben Slade. Well, 
when are you going to begin ?" 

" I am ready now, Mr. Slade." 

" Pshaw ! Don't Mr. Slade me. Call me Eben, 
plain Eben. Just as Kate did." 

Mr. Reed's face flushed angrily. 

"See here, George," the visitor went on, sud- 
denly changing his sportive style to a manner that 
was designed to appear quite confidential and 
friendly, — " see here, 1 don't want to quarrel with 
you nor any other man. This here is just a chat 
between two almost relatives — sort of left-handed 
brothers, you know, and for my " 

" Slade ! " exclaimed Mr. Reed, savagely, rising 
from his chair, but at once seating himself again, 
and speaking with forced calmness: "While I 
have allowed you this interview, I must request you 
to understand now and for all time, as you have 
understood very plainly heretofore, that there can 
be no connection or implied relationship between 
us. We arc strangers, and from this night must 
remain so ! " 

"Ex — actly ! " mterruptcd Slade, cheerily — 
" the kind of strangers two chaps naturally would 
be, having the same sister — my sister by blood, 
yours by adoption." 

Certainly this was a strong point with Mr. Slade, 
for he leaned forward and looked boldly into the 
other's face, as he finished the sentence. 

" Yes," said Mr. Reed, with a solemn dignity, 
"precisely such strangers as the scape-grace 
brother of a noble girl must be to those who res- 
cued this girl in her earliest childhood, sheltered 
her, taught her, honored and loved her as true 
brothers should, and to whom she clung with all 
a sister's fondness and loyalty." 

"Pre — ciscly ! " observed Mr. Slade, with a 
mocking air of being deeply impressed. " Go on." 

" You know the conditions under which you 
were adopted by Squire Hinslcy, and Kate was 
adopted by my father, when you were left orphans, 
homeless, destitute " 

" Thank you. You are right. Quite destitute; 
— I may say, desperately destitute ; though as 1 was 

six years of age at the time, and Kate but two, I 
have forgotten the painful particulars. Proceed." 

" You know well," continued Mr. Reed, with 
quiet precision, "the agreement, signed, sealed, 
and delivered, in the presence of witnesses, between 
my parents and John Hinsley on the one side, and 
your uncle and lawful guardian, Samuel Slade, on 
the other. The adoption was absolute. Kate was 
to have no legal claim on John Hinsley or his 
family, and you were to have none upon my father 
and his family. She was to be to my father, in all 
respects but birth, his own child, — his, Henry 
Reed's, to support and educate, sharing the fortune 
of his own children during his life, and receiving 
an equal share of his estate at his death ; all of 
which was literally and faithfully fulfilled. And 
you were adopted by John Hinsley under similar 
conditions, excepting that they were, in fact, more 
favorable. He and his wife were childless, and 
rich in worldly goods ; and they agreed to shelter 
and educate you — in fact, so long as you continued 
to obey and honor them, to treat you in all respects 
as their son and heir. You know the sequel. You 
had a pleasant home, tender care, and conscien- 
tious training, but, in spite of all, you were lazy, 
worthless, treacherous — a source of constant grief 
and anxiety to the good pair who had hoped to find 
in you a son to comfort their old age." 

"Thank you, again!" exclaimed Eben Slade. 
" 1 always liked frankness." 

" In time, and with good cause, they discarded 
you," continued Mr. Reed, without noticing the 
interruption, " and my father, for Kate's sake, did 
all in his power to win you to a good life, but in 
vain. Later, in dire want and trouble, when even 
your worthless companions threw you off, you 
appealed to me, and I induced Mr. and Mrs. Hins- 
ley to give you one more trial. But you fell into 
bad company again and ran away, deserting your 
adopted parents just when they were beginning to 
trust you. Your subsequent course I do not know, 
nor where )ou have been from that day to this. I 
only know that, although during your boyhood 
you were free to visit your sister, you never showed 
the slightest interest in her, nor seemed to care 
whether she were living or dead. Even when we 
brought you together, you were cold and selfish in 
your treatment of her, moved by a jealous bitter- 
ness which even her trustful love for you could not 
dispel. These are disagreeable truths, but I intend 
that we shall understand each other." 

" So I see," muttered Eben. 

" Meantime," continued Mr. Reed, in a different 
tone, and almost as if he were talking to himself and 
had forgotten the presence of his visitor, " Kate 
grew in sweetness, in truth, and nobility of nature, 
into a strong, beautiful girlhood, honored by all, 




and idolized by her new parents and by her two 
brothers, Wolcott and myself. Bearing our name 
from her babyhood, and coming with us, soon 
after, into this new neighborhood as our only sister, 
her relationship never was questioned " 

Eben Slade had been listening in sullen patience, 
but now he asked, quickly : 

" Do they, do the youngsters " 

" My brother's children?" asked Mr. Reed. 

" Well, vour brother's children, if you wish ; do 
they know that she was adopted by their grandpar- 
ents, that she was not their own flesh-and-blood 
aunt ? " 

"They think of her always as the beloved sister 
of their father and myself, as she was," replied Mr. 
Reed. " From the first, it was the custom of our 
household to consider her purely as one of the 
family. Kate, herself, would have resented any 
other view of the case — therefore " 

" Therefore the children have been kept .n the 
dark about it," exclaimed Eben Slade, exultingly, 
as though it were his turn now to utter plain truths. 

" The question has never been raised by them. 
They were but six weeks old when they \\ere 
brought to this house — and as they grew older, 
they learned to know of her and love her as their 
Aunt Kate. If ever they ask me the question 
direct, I shall answer it. Till then I shall consider 
Kate Reed — I should say Mrs. Kate Robertson — 
as my sister and their aunt." 

" And 1 likewise shall continue to consider her 
as my sister, with your permission," remarked 
Eben, with a disagreeable laugh. 

" Yes, and a true sister she would have been. 
The letters which she wrote you during yjur boy- 
hood, and which you never answered, showed her 
interest in your welfare." 

" If she had known enough to put money in 
them, now," sneered Eben Slade. " I was kept 
down in the closest way, and a little offering of 
that kind might — but that's neither here nor there, 
and I don't see the drift of all this talk. What / 
want to know — what in fact I came for, and what I 
intend to keep coming for, is to see her will." 

" Her will ? " asked Mr. Reed with surprise, and 
in an unconscious tone of relief 

'• Yes, now you 've hit it ! Her adopted parents 
were dead. She had inherited one-third of their 
estate. With such a fortune as that, she must have 
left a will. Where is it ? I want to know what 
became of that money, and why you kept " 

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Reed, sorely 
tempted to lay hands on the fellow, and thrust 
him from the house. " No insolence, sir ! " 

Just then Lydia opened the door, and, as we 
already know, vanished as soon as she learned her 
presence had not been called for. 

" What 1 \\ant to know" — began Eben again, in 
a high key. 

" Not so loud," said Mr. Reed, quietly. 

His visitor's voice dropped, as, crooking his 
elbows, and resting a hand on each arm of his 
chair, he started afresh : "So Miss Kate Reed, as 
she called herself, and as you called her, never 
wrote me again after that, eh ? " 

This was uttered so significantly that his listener 
responded with a quick : 

" Well ! what do you mean ? " 

" What do/(W mean?" echoed Mr. Slade, with 
a darkening face. " Why didn't she ever \mte to 
me afterward? " 

This was a bit of acting designed to mis- 
lead; for at that moment a yellow, worn letter, 
written nearly fourteen years before, was tucked 
snugly away in the visitor's pocket. And it was 
on the strength of this same letter that he hoped 
yet to obtain heavy favors from George Reed. 
Eben knew well enough what had become of the 
money, but, for some cunning reason of his own, 
chose to plead ignorance. 

" I will ask you a question in return," said Mr. 
Reed. "Why, if you took so keen an interest in 
your sister's fortune, did you not apply to me long 
ago for information ? " 

" Because," replied Eben Slade, boldly, " 1 had 
my reasons. 1 knew the money was safe ; and 1 
could bide my time." 

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, "do you pre- 
tend to be ignorant of the fact that, two years after 
my sister Kate's marriage, she started with her 
husband and baby to return to America, absolutely 
penniless ?" 

" Who paid their passage, then?" asked Eben ; 
— but meeting Mr. Reed's eyes, he went on in an 
injured tone, "I know nothing but what you choose 
to tell me. True, you forgot to advertise for me 
to come and hear of something to my advantage, ' 
but I supposed, very naturally, that coming here I 
should find Kate had left me a share of her fort- 
une as a matter of course, and that 1 could go 
back and settle myself respectably in the far-West. 
1 may as well tell you I have a wife somewhere 
out there, and if 1 had means to buy up a splendid 
mining property which can be had now for a mere 
song, I 'd just buy it clean and settle down to a 
steady life." 

During this speech, Eben Slade's expression of 
face had become so very frank and innocent that Mr. 
Reed's conviction began to waver. He had felt sure 
that Slade remembered well enough having long 
ago written him t%vo letters — one asking for infor- 
mation concerning Kate's property, the other 
bemoaning the fact that all was lost, and appealing 
for help. But now it seemed evident that these 




documents, still in Mr. Reed's good keeping, had 
quite escaped his visitor's memor)'. 

" 1 don't want to go to law about this thing," 
continued Slade, slowly, as if to demand closer 
attention, "especially as it would stir up your home 
affairs for the public benefit, and so, as 1 say, I 
hoped to settle things quietly. If I only had 
what ought to be coming to me, I would n't be 
here at all. It would be lonesome for my many 
friends in this favored spot, but I should be far 
away, making a man of myself, as they say in the 

"What is all this to me?" said Mr. Reed, 
coldly. "You have had your answer concerning 
Mrs. Robertson's property. It is getting late. 
Have you any more questions to ask ? " 

"Well, yes, a few. What about the wreck? 
No, let 's hear from the date of the marriage." 
And Mr. Slade, inwardly surprised at Mr. Reed's 
patience, yet unable to forego the luxury of being 
as familiar and pert as possible, settled himself to 
listen to the story which Mr. Reed had permitted 
, him to come and hear. 

"They sailed," began that gentleman, "early 
in " 

Slade, leaning back in his easy-chair, waved his 
hand with a sprightly : " Beg pardon ! Go back 
a little. This Robertson " 

" This Robertson," said Mr. Reed, as though it 
quite suited him to go back, " was a stranger to me ; 
a friend of the lady whom my brother Wolcott after- 
ward married — indeed, Kate formed his acquaint- 
ance while visiting at this lady's home in New 
York. He was a fascinating, handsome man, of a 
romantic turn, and without a grain of business 

" Like myself," interrupted the listener, with an 
ugly attempt at a smile. 

"From the first, I opposed the marriage," con- 
tinued Mr. Reed — "but the poor girl, reasonable 
in everything else, would listen neither to argument 
nor to appeal. She was sure that in time we all 
should know him and love him as she did. I would 
not even attend the wedding, which took place at 
her friend's house. Though, by the terms of my 
father's will, and very much against our judgment, 
my brother Wolcott and myself, who were her 
guardians up to the date of her marriage, gave up 
to her unconditionally one-third of the familv 
estate on her wedding-day. The result was as we 
had feared. They sailed immediately for England, 
and once there, he entered into various wild specu- 
lations, and in less than two years the little fortune 
was utterly gone." 

"Can you prove it?" interrupted Mr. Slade, 

" Meantime," said Mr. Reed, looking at him as 

though he were a vicious spaniel, " my brother 
had married, and had gone with his bride to Europe 
to remain two years. In a twelvemonth his wife 
became the mother of twins, a boy and a girl, and 
before two weeks had passed their father was 
stricken with fever, and died. News then came to 
me, not only of this grief, but telling how my sister 
Kate had become destitute, and had been too proud 
to let us know of her misfortunes, and finally how, 
at the moment the letter was written, she and her 
husband, Robertson, with their baby daughter, then 
only three weeks old, were living solely on the 
bounty of Wolcott's widow. 

" There was but one thing to be done. The 
widow was broken-hearted, totally unable to attend 
to her affairs, and Mr. Robertson was the last man 
whom I could trust to look after them all. But he 
at least could come with them to -America, and I 
sent word for them all to come — and bring the 
three babies — leaving nothing undone which could 
tend to their comfort and safety on the voyage. 

They sailed " Here Mr. Reed paused, bracing 

himself for the remainder of the recital, which he 
had resolved should be complete and full. He had 
at hand legal papers proving that his adopted sis- 
ter Kate, at the time of her marriage, had received 
her rightful third of his father's estate; but he did 
not feel in any way compelled to show these to his 
unpleasant visitor. 

Eben Slade for an instant respected the silence. 
But he had a point to gain. 

" Yes," said he, " but this is sudden news as to 
the loss of her property. 1 don't understand it. 
She must at some time have made a w'ill. Show 
me documents ! " 

" There was no will," said Mr. Reed. " As for 
documents," — here he arose, walked to a high, 
old-fashioned secretary, unlocked a drawer, and 
produced two letters, — " you may recognize these ! " 
and he unfolded the yellow, time-worn sheets before 
Mr. Slade's astonished eyes — astonished, not that 
they were his own letters, betraying his full knowl- 
edge of his sister's loss of property, but that Mr. 
Reed should be able to produce them after all these 
fourteen years. 

" You see ? " said that gentleman, pointing to 
these heartless words in Slade's own handwritin